#i know kafka gives life-changing head

[strwbmei]

i wanna fuck kafka on a kitchen counter so bad 😕😕😕😕

OUGHH I NEED HER SO BAD...

I need to lift her up the counter, spread her legs, and fuck her to oblivion. I need to see her hands scrambling for something to hold onto, only to end up gripping my shoulders for dear life. She'd be such a brat too, teasing you for being so desperate even though she's the one moaning like a bitch in heat and grinding her hips to meet yours. Even though she was the one who walked into the kitchen with nothing but a silk robe that wasn't even tied properly.

Once the marble countertops are a mess with her cum and slick, her legs hang loosely and numbly over your shoulders but she still has the strength to run her mouth so you decide to shut her up with your cock. She'd be surprised at first, but she easily adjusts and takes it all the way to the base. Eventually, the kitchen is too slippery for the two of you to continue fucking there, and you end up having to move to the bedroom.

[sweetbbyshion]

Eros' song

-> Shinichiro Sano x Reader (no pronouns or descriptions)

characters: Shinichiro Sano

genre: fluff

summary: you write a poem as a way to confess to your best friend

warnings: childhood friends to lovers, i wrote the poem so please don't be too mean or i'll cry, also DON'T STEAL THE POEM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD it will be my last reason, the reader is into books, first quote is from Kafka's Letters to Milena and the second is Edgar Allan Poe's Annabel Lee

network: @eveningatthemoviesnetwork

Shinichiro has been your best friend since your first memory surfaced. From the moment you could process thoughts and emotions, the man has been close to you. Truly, it was a matter of time until one of you fell in love and you happened to be the (un)lucky one.

You were no older than thirteen when the infamous incident happened. Shinichiro (also thirteen and with a really, really ugly hairstyle) looked at you and gave you a big toothy smile, like he always does whenever a cool bike passes by you. Suddenly, flowers exploded behind him, angels sang, the sun shone brighter than it had all day and you found yourself almost squinting and on the verge of throwing up because of the butterflies in your stomach. Metaphorically, obviously.

It was a shame, really. You nearly yelled at the universe for not giving this evil curse to Shinichiro instead but, apparently, the entities above also doomed Shinichiro to a life of rejection. So, you suffered because your best friend didn’t look at you and the man suffered because no girl wanted him.

At thirteen you turned into poetry and all kinds of literature, finding pieces that you related to a bit too much and, eventually, writing things yourself. Shinichiro didn’t understand most of the stuff you read, always questioning what words meant and what was so special about those poems that had you tear up so often. You shared that part of your life with him as well, showing the poems, drabbles, verses you came up with that were messily written in your journal. Fortunately for you and your weak heart, Shinichiro didn’t really understand that most of the things you wrote were about him.

It stayed that way until you were twenty three. You were less naive, more in tune with the feelings that made you want to throw up years ago and definitely in love with your best friend (who kept getting rejected even after changing the horrible hairstyle; the Gods really hated you both). Shinichiro had his own bike shop, a gang that supported him through everything and you. He still happily reads whatever you wrote in your journal and he still doesn't understand half of the stuff you have there but the honest praise and support makes your heartbeat a little bit faster. Shinichiro is there when you publish your very own poetry book, his name deservedly on the first page. To Shinichiro, who was always there for me. As Franz Kafka said “In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out.”

So, maybe, you were a bit too obvious with the whole ‘I love you’ deal but Shinichiro didn't seem to understand all the hints you dropped. Everyone around you seemed to find out about your little secret and some of his friends even went out of their way to let you know he felt the same but you weren't so sure.

“What you writing over there?” the smooth voice of Shinichiro pulls you back to reality, the noise in the shop coming back in an instant. It was almost dinner time and you came into the shop hoping to have a meal with your best friend before going home. Deciding to entertain yourself, you pulled out your notebook and a pen from your bag and wrote some ideas that popped in your head as you stared with heart eyes to the object of your affection.

“Nothing important.” A lie. The words that stared back at you formed, yet again, another finished love poem that you dreamed of showing to Shinichiro in hopes that he would read it and return your feelings. Shinichiro knew you were lying. Somehow he always knew. You refuse to return eye contact when he grabs your pen and doodles mindlessly next to the verses, a routine he acquired when you whined about the pages of your journal being too boring with just words in it. You look at his hands gently drawing small hearts (Shinichiro couldn't draw a heart even if it was to save his family but you grew to love the blob shapes) and a random dog with stars surrounding it.

“Can I read it?” You meet his eyes, tender and sweet, which were already looking at you. Your heart flips, turns and does cartwheels when Shinichiro gives you that toothy smile that makes him close his eyes and you can only let out a small “Sure.” before closing your mouth so you don't accidentally confess.

My soul holds a secret that my pen

Now wishes to share.

In ink-stained lines, my feelings find a home:

Untold to anyone but the Gods from above,

As I convoke Eros to help me compose a piece

That will reach your heart.

But do I dare?

Do I dare trouble the deities with a greedy tone

When I can’t gather the courage

To whisper confessions when we’re alone;

The only witness to my love

Being the moon shining high up

And the paper getting stained with passion.

So sure of my affection yet,

I hesitate.

Do you dare reciprocate these heavy feelings

That only keep me awake at night or

Am I merely a friend that consoles your ego

When things fall apart?

But it’s okay,

For I have accepted the possibility

The harsh, unwanted probability

That I’m doomed to an existence of unrequited love

And a lifeless life

Without the muse who inspires me

To write the most loveful poems and

The most sorrowful verses.

You nervously glance at Shinichiro while he is reading, noticing how his eyes squint and his nose scrunches from time to time (he does it when he doesn't understand something that is written). You pay close attention to his face, the poet in you wishing to remember Shinichiro until your last day if the worst was to happen. A part of you hopes the man will finally understand all of the things you wished to say but weren’t strong enough to. You pray that your poem reaches his heart and soul, that he sees you not only as a longtime friend but a life partner. “Wow.” He sighs, lifting his eyes from the paper to settle on you again. “I’ll never get tired of saying you’re really good.” Shinichiro stands back at his full height, murmuring about back pain after leaning down for so long. You look up at the man who has your world spinning around him, waiting to see if he says something more. He doesn't.

“Is that all?” You ask, playing with the bracelet on your wrist (a gift from Shinichiro when you turned 18). He looks at you confused. His eyes scan the paper again, rereading the verses to figure out if he missed anything. He still looks lost so you grab the pen and, in a moment of courage, you write a few words at the bottom of the poem. For Shinichiro, who I “loved with a love that was more than love”. The handwriting is shaky, giving away the anxiety exuding out of you. Shinichiro reads the additional words, then stops, then looks at you. You get up, not being able to have his body towering you that way. He is standing next to you and, for the first time, you’re not sure about the emotions revealed by his eyes. You wonder if you made a mistake confessing out of nowhere, in his shop, while his siblings and friends are hanging out and the last customers exit. You should have eased your way into the subject but what’s done is done and all you have left is to wait.

“I know I’m not the smartest person…” Shinichiro’s eyes are on you, reading your every move. “But does this mean what I think it means?” You nod, not trusting your voice. His eyes widen and, in a sudden movement, Shinichiro is even closer to you. His hands are on each side of your face, forcing you to look at him. “You wrote a poem for me. A love poem.” You nod again, your movements a bit restricted by the big hands holding your face in place. “I’m going to kiss you.”

Shinichiro gives you five seconds to step back before his lips are crashing against yours. You don't think any poem, book, word could describe what you felt the moment your lips met. It’s fast and a bit clumsy but you couldn't be more happy this happened, unable to control the smile when Shinichiro stops the kiss to look at you. You want to giggle like a young teenager when Shinichiro gives you that smile you love more than anything. “Does this mean you feel the same?”

“Yeah. Have for a while. Couldn't stand the thought of getting rejected by you though.” His thumb caresses your cheek and you find yourself leaning to the touch.

“I would never reject you.” You murmur, embarrassed at such revelation. “You know there’s a quote from Emily Brontë-”

“Tell me about her in a bit.” Shinichiro interrupts you. “I want to kiss you again.”

The next time you write a poem isn't about Shinichiro, your best friend. Instead, you dumped all of the new (reciprocated) feelings about Shinichiro, your boyfriend, and the experiences you get from living with him by your side. Most of your poems were and will probably always be about Shinichiro Sano, no matter the status he holds in your life. You get to love your muse and your boyfriend gets a lifetime supply of romantic poetry dedicated to him (as well as quotes that fit each situation).

[ouraniatm]

if you asked cora frankly, these missions and highly specific biddings for someone else were bunch of crazy talk. elio this, elio that... the green haired criminal grew tired of those lines being thrown around, over and over again, like a mantra. she didn't think much of it in the beginning - back when the world seemed to truly turn it's back on her - and even played along in order to survive, but now only annoyed her. perhaps it's the arrogance of their leader to believe destiny could be predicted and planned through, like he's playing a strategic role-play game, or just the fact cora does not like being told what to do ... it didn't matter. her opinion wouldn't make a change, nor would her situation get any better should she do the foolish act and oppose elio, himself. better survive on your own than to get in more danger than she's ever been in her life.

then again...who would give a damn should their underdog hunter get caught by IPC? nobody knew anything about her, not even the highest authorities had much information on her...she was just a black sheep.

well, not that she'd just up and say these thoughts out loud...especially not to spider lady, over here. hollow, icy eyes roll at kafka's comments while back is turned to her, mostly preoccupied with fixing her ice launchers before scoffing. ❛ heh...you were definitely the spoiled rich kid in previous life. ❜ she pauses to reload said launchers with ice-cased rockets, clicking her tongue and moving the goggles on top of her head. ❛ sure, bashing skulls is fun and all...only after i've taken everything i needed and made them watch it all, so they know they got duped on. ❜ cora grins devilishly as jaded eyes look back to kafka. ❛ but, eh... it's not like i give too much thought into my methods...i just find an opening. least i'm not a petty loser like our resident hacker. ❜

cora moves one hand to hip while other swings her weapon across the shoulder, finally having the decency to fully turn to kafka. ❛ so, you here to brag 'bout your criminal record or to fix your shit, again? you know i don't do chit-chat. ❜

@crownshattered ... continued from here!

[virusinfected-memes]

TIK TOK SENTENCE STARTERS, PT. 4 ;

65 starters. CW: alcohol mention, cussing, drug mention, sexual themes. Some starters are just random quotes from Tik Tok creators, some starters are from Tik Tok trends that have popped up over the past year or so. The original sources of these trends are from various memes, shows, songs, and other popular media. Feel free to change words and pronouns as needed! [PARTS: 1 - 2 - 3]

“Are they smoking the devil’s lettuce? Yep! Faded. Look at him. Faded as fuck. Zooted!”

“Are you more of a Kafka person, lonely because you feel like the worst person in the world, or a Dostoevsky person, lonely because you feel like you’re better than everyone else?”

“Baby, I’ma have the best fuckin’ night of my life.”

“Back in those days, I didn’t really know how to love someone, but I wanted so much to be loved.”

“Be sweet to me, baby.”

“Dolly Parton would throw a brick at a cop.”

“Every day that I am not living in a haunted house with a sketchy past is a day lost.”

“God is an absent parent who demands loyalty despite never being around.”

“Hug me! Bring it in!”

“I can’t be the only one who hears you.”

“I don’t care what you think, as long as it’s about me.”

“I don’t know what you did to me.”

“If he ever hit you with the lies, better never hit him with the likes.”

“If no one roots for you, I always will.”

“I’ll treat you like my liquor. I won’t chase you.”

“I made you think that I would always stay. I said some things that I should never say.”

“I’m asking nicely. Give me what I want.”

“I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say you don’t like the color pink? Yeah, no. Grow up, okay? Let me know when you grow up.”

“I’m sorry, this has to be addressed. How did this become this become this? Huh?”

“I’m taking this home with me.”

“I swear to God I saw her howling at the sky.”

“It’s not safe in the dark.”

“I wanna believe in you, I wanna believe.”

“I want you to make me feel like I’m the only girl in the world.”

“I wish I knew you wanted me.”

“I wouldn’t date you if you were a worm because you deserve a worm love of your own.”

“I would tear those damn legs up. You better back up.”

“Make me behave like an animal.”

“Motherfucker, where is it? Where the fuck is it?”

“My boyfriend texted me and said he wanted to break up. I replied and said “I thought we were just friends.” Stay toxic.”

“My mom said we can read each other horror stories by candlelight and summon spirits if it’s okay with your mom.”

“My mom says it’s okay to explore some abandoned funeral homes if it’s okay with your mom.”

“Pictures of last night ended up online.”

“Please don’t say you love me.”

“Running away is easy.”

“She ain’t out to get you, but she’s better on your side.”

“Some people think it’s even fun to smash pumpkins.”

“Sometimes God puts a man in your life so you can meet his best friend. Stay toxic.”

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”

“So you seasoned it with just dry parsley? Parsley ain’t hardly got no real good flavor by itself.”

“Tell me what’s worse, losing you now or later.”

“That’s a lot of fucking cheese. You’re gonna be on the toilet for YEARS.”

“That shit taste good. I don’t give a damn what nobody say.”

“The fucking thought of you with somebody else, I don’t like that.”

“The jury said she’s charming, but her exes say she’s wicked.”

“There is nothing you can do to beat me.”

“There’s a pounding in my head.”

“There’s a stranger in my bed.”

“This a hickey or a bruise?”

“Tricked you? No, I saved you.”

“Well, just as I thought. Trash.”

“Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.”

“What happened to ‘hello’? ‘How are you’? ‘My name is...’? What happened to that?”

“What have you done today besides nothing?”

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

“Why are you so obsessed with Halloween?”

“Why don’t you go back to your own house and stop bothering us?”

“Would ya’ loosen up, would ya’?”

“You got me looking for attention.”

“You smell so sweet, like fresh-picked daisies.”

“You’re a ten, but your mom’s a twenty.”

“You’re a ten, but you spent $200+ on cosmetics for video games.”

"You’re so fine. With that being said, may God continue to send you terrible people, until you decide to choose me.”

“You ruined everything, you stupid bitch.”

[fallow-grove]

Also, another fucked up idea I had was a short story where a man decides to give up on life.

He phones his friends to let them know and he says “don’t try and stop me.”

But he’s not suicidal or gonna hurt people.

His friends rush to the house “Fuck! He’s actually doing it!”

He heads to the corner of an empty white room in his house, hunches over, lies down and closes his eyes.

The corner begins to turn a deep dark shadowy black. As does he.

He is transforming.

He slowly but surely undergoes a metamorphosis.

His form has now changed into that of a little black chair.

He has ceased to be human, and in renouncing his humanity he chose to become a chair.

His friends arrive only a few seconds later.

“Oh fuck….oh my GOD. He actually did it.”

Yeah.

He becomes a chair.

I told my sister about it. My intention was for it to be creepy and needlessly ominous so I asked for her opinion.

She said it was the most disturbingly bleak and depressing thing she’d ever heard and that it made Kafka’s Metamorphosis look cheerful by comparison.

Yeah…I may have gone a little too far with it.

Idk.

What do you think?

me as a child squatting in a field mentally focusing on becoming a bush

[girlboysollux]

For the books ask thingy: 1,2,5,28,30

1- what is the best book you have ever read? agh this is a super hard question but i'd have to say the metamorphosis by franz kafka. after finishing it i had to just. sit there for a moment (in a good way) it's also one of the only books that's made me cry.

2- what is the worst book you have ever read? another hard question but probably ender's game by orson scott card. i know it's a super influential and popular book but i just. did not like it.

5- what book do you think everyone should read? fahrenheit 451 by ray bradbury. it's part of like. every high school english class's curriculum for a reason.

28- is there a book that made you cry? i know i've shed a couple tears over books throughout the years but i can't remember any other examples off the top of my head.

30- is there a book that changed your life? before we were trans by kit heyam. it is impossible to summarize this book in just a few sentences, so all i'll say is that it seriously changed the way i think about history and helped me realized how much my own gender experience relies on the context of our time. please give this book a read if you have the time.

[sword-dad-fukuzawa]

hi! :] for the weird questions for writers: 1, 10, 32, 40

Sparrow!! hi!! Ty for the ask, this'll be long XD

Weird Asks

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

Alegreya, 12 pt, single spaced! Sometimes, when I feel spicy, 11 pt 1.15 spaced. I've written in this font since middle school so now it's just My Writing Font and I find it easiest to write in. I've been forever ruined for other fonts.

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

YES. SO MUCH WRITING HAUNTS ME. MY OWN WRITING HAUNTS ME CONSTANTLY.

When it comes to the writing of others haunting me, that means that it just quietly lives in the back of my head and appears occasionally. A lot of oneliner quotes from books I haven't even read haunt me, and sometimes they sit in the foyer of my brain, demanding to be written about. Some books have quite literally changed the course of my life; Osamu Dazai's No Longer Human comes to mind. I am perpetually haunted by themes and narratives and I wouldn't have it any other way.

My own writing haunts me in a different way. It's more that I'll look at some of my old concepts and ask myself why my current concepts seem so lackluster, why I remember being genuinely excited for most of my old ones but can't bring that same enthusiasm for my current works. I know for a fact that I'm a better writer now--I've reread my old work and winced at some of the dialogue, the pacing, the fight choreo and scene descriptions--but concepts that grab me by the throat these days are few and far between. It's my BSD fic era that haunts me the most.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

Here, I'll give you two.

The opening lines of Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese" saved my life. I found it off of tumblr :)

Without getting too personal, it was a revolutionary idea for me that I didn't have to spend my life desperately trying to reach some unattainable ideal of a "good person." Not a "good partner" or a "good friend" or a "good child" or a "good writer." I could just exist and try to be kind.

The other line that haunts me is Asagiri Kafka's writing process, because it's influenced how I simplify my characterizations. I don't remember the exact line, but in the wake of Mori's stage actor's passing, he talked about how he explores characterization and keeps it consistent: he bases a character on three "vectors," or personality traits, and sticks to them. Here's the TL I read, and here's the lines that haunt me in particular.

Ahhhh, Asagiri-sensei. Never change.

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

HA okay this is my favorite poem that's about writing. It's extremely weird and I love it a lot. It's "Purity," by Billy Colllins.

My favourite time to write is in the late afternoon, weekdays, particularly Wednesdays. This is how I go about it: I take a fresh pot of tea into my study and close the door. Then I remove my clothes and leave them in a pile as if I had melted to death and my legacy consisted of only a white shirt, a pair of pants and a pot of cold tea.

Then I remove my flesh and hang it over a chair. I slide it off my bones like a silken garment. I do this so that what I write will be pure, completely rinsed of the carnal, uncontaminated by the preoccupations of the body.

Finally I remove each of my organs and arrange them on a small table near the window. I do not want to hear their ancient rhythms when I am trying to tap out my own drumbeat.

Now I sit down at the desk, ready to begin. I am entirely pure: nothing but a skeleton at a typewriter.

I should mention that sometimes I leave my penis on. I find it difficult to ignore the temptation. Then I am a skeleton with a penis at a typewriter.

In this condition I write extraordinary love poems, mostly of them exploiting the connection between sex and death.

I am concentration itself: I exist in a universe where there is nothing but sex, death, and typewriting.

After a spell of this I remove my penis too. Then I am all skull and bones typing into the afternoon. Just the absolute essentials, no flounces. Now I write only about death, most classical of themes, in language light as the air between my ribs.

Afterward, I reward myself by going for a drive at sunset. I replace my organs and slip back into my flesh and clothes. Then I back the car out of the garage and speed through woods on winding country roads, passing stone walls, farmhouses, and frozen ponds, all perfectly arranged like words in a famous sonnet.

[anthonysstupiddailyblog]

Anthony’s Stupid Daily Blog (760): Tue 16th Apr 2024

Today was supposed to be the day that I Was going to take Lucy to the vets for an operation to have her remaining teeth removed which the vets warned me she could die from. However I decided that I'd rather not have my heart shatter into a million pieces and so instead today Lucy and I spent most of the afternoon in the back garden where she soaked in the sun on the grass while I read more of Philip K Dick's Voices From The Street. I've been agonising over this decision ever since Lucy and I left the vet's office. I kept trying to reassure myself that as professionals they would take good care of her while she was under but a phone conversation with my sister awakened me to the fact that I was just trying to delude myself and that if we did take her in for the operation she probably wouldn't come back and even if she did she would have to live the remainder of her life with no fucking teeth which would be hell for her. The main reason I changed my mind on the operation was because i had this recurring vision in my head of me signalling to Lucy that we were going out for a walk and her excitedly sitting still while I put her leash on and then hopping out ther door not knowing that this might be the last time she leaves the house. I know that the picture the vets painted wasn't good but she never outright said that she is in pain she just said if she is in pain it might get to the point that she starts refusing to eat food but if she was in pain she'd constantly be yelping and crying all the time so I don't think it's that bad. Plus she doesn't seem to have a problem with the dental sticks I give her every day and ever since I started giving her these tablets the vet gave me (whatever they are) her breath has started to smell normal again. All this considered what she had was probably just a mild infection that has now fucked off. We're not sure how old Lucy is exactly but we're guessing roughly around fifteen so we're not sure how long she might have left with us. I'd hate it if I'd have cut short her life for something that turned out couldn've been treated relatively easily. I know that I might be being cruel and selfish by going against the vets orders but I just can't bring myself to go through with it. Lucy is my pal and I want her around for as long as possible. 

Voices From The Street is a great installment in Philip K Dick's early bibliography. Although it's not a science fiction story that doesn't really matter because the main character of Stuart Hadley, the grittiness of the story and the mood Dick creates for it which I would compare to the feeling you get when you read a novel by Kafka or a film by David Lynch makes this an emmensly enjoyable read. I really empathise with the main character Stuart Hadley who is convinced there is something missing in his life that he just hasn't bumped into yet and is frustrated because he's actively trying everything that he thinks could be his saving grace but nothing seems to fit. It's strange to me that Dick decided to exclusively write science fiction novels because he was incredibly gifted at realistic character study type books where he just lets you spend time with one or more of the characters he's created and let's you get a feel for them and make up your own mind about whether they are good or bad. In my opinion he could have made a good living writing these kinds of stories but obviously I'm glad he got bitten by whatever bug that pushed him in the sci-fi direction or else we never would have gotten Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?

[tamiyagantetsusai]

Me, standing in the mirror at 3 am, drunk out of my mind, re-enacting my pre-CV submission era debut at a bookstore: So, I've realised the girlies here don't really conform to the Booktok, and the boys are looking for Kafka. Did you know I can tell where we can get a book from just from looking at its ISBN? Yeah, 9781474, that's Jonathan Ball. Is it a manga? Yeah, it'll take a minimum four weeks, but due to our country being low on the list of priorities, it might take 8 to 16 weeks, no inbetween. You want me to contact you via Discord? Sure thing dude. Oh, Sarah J Maas is amazing, I met a girl in 2017 who has been 5+ years deep in her hyperfixation on the Throne of Glass series. I read the first 3 chapters and it was intriguing but I have 1000 books on my TBR list so it's not often that I can actually finish a book, but I swear you'll enjoy it. If not you can come back and throw the book at my head. Oh, you're looking for Riaan Mansers' adult books? I'll contact my coworkers who got me fired for a supposed case of sugar theft. I met him on several occasions and I'm sure I can convince him to send us a copy for you despite the limited (on-demand) print since none of the distributors have realised that they should have kept his books on the list for ordering. Oh, my sweet colleague from a different branch inquiring about a book from a local publisher you can't trace despite it being a google away? Sure, here, you can order Karavan Press titles from Protea. Protea Boekhuis or Protea Books? It's Protea Boekhuis, of course. "Hey, is this YA book any good?" "Yes, my little brother (re: coworker everybody assumed was my lil bro) has been obsessed with this authors books since he got to the level where he could comprehend them." Oh, you're tired of the fact that Wilbur Smith is dead and other people are continuing his books? Here's Tony Park. He's on par with old school Wilbur Smith, if not better. Can I tell you about how he traumatised me into memorising the faces of every local author, or how he holds fund raisers for the local wildlife, or how wonderful I think he is soley for the fact that he made my first (abusive) manager uncomfortable whenever we held book launches for him? Would you like to hear my opinion on where is the best place to order books that will actually interest you since the majority of book chains seem to have their own idea of what a bookstore is supposed to stock? Or would you like me to explain how the pricing margins work and why we have the best prices? Oh, why does x bookstore have this American book but we don't? Why is this book so pricey? Why do you not stock Bungou Stray Dogs? Why do you want me to explain to you, a German expat, why I don't believe Berserk is a suitable read for your 11 year old son, or why your 13 year old daughter should not read Colleen Hoover? Can I convince you to please support the local library? Please don't treat me like an information desk or map. Please allow me to recommend an author to your daughter that is not Enid Blyton. Please let your daughter read Amelia Fang. Do not underestimate your child when it comes to reading capability. Please let them read something where it has words that will challenge their vocabulary. Please, adults and older teens, read shitty books. Not every read needs to be perfect or life-changing. Learn to appreciate. Gift books aren't a thing anymore, I am sad that you cannot give your friend a book with humorous quotes or funny pictures, too. I want to have Chicken Soup for the Soul on my shelves just as much as you. Also, I am autistic. Yeah, I am AFAB and I don't look like your autistic son/daughter/cousin, but I understand and want to help the best I can.

[metamorphesque]

i want to start reading, where should I begin ? :)

First and foremost, just know that it's going to change your life and your relationship with it.

Secondly, do not feel feel uneasy or discouraged if your first shot at it doesn't make you fall in love with reading. It will only mean that you haven't found your book yet.

If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't take a long classic (*cough* russian literature *cough*) as a first stepping stone.

Instead, try one of these:

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller (if this one doesn't make you fall head over heels with reading ... *** also, don't worry if you haven't read "The Iliad", Madeline Miller takes your hand and patiently walks you through every room, giving backstories for every character.)

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab (I'm aware that this is a thick one, but trust me, you'll fly through the pages. To me, it was quite fast-pace, yet had the right amount of depth to keep you emotionally invested. Are some aspects of this book problematic? Yup. Is it a textbook example of eurocentrism? Yes. But still I think it's worth reading.)

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid (no words, love, no words)

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Sáenz (simply the sweetest book I've ever had the honor to read)

Before the Coffee Gets Cold by Toshikazu Kawaguchi (reading this book smells like cinnamon buns and hot chocolate (or warm coffee)

Yolk by Mary H.K. Choi (filled with contemporary references, feels like that moment when you've slipped on something and are waiting for the fall *which isn't coming** and smells like early 20s struggles)

The Woman in the Purple Skirt by Natsuko Imamura (very strange, yet absolutely captivating)

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka (okay, hear me out. I'm not just recommending this because I am biased and Kafka is the love of my life. I DO really think that this book is peculiarly interesting enough to keep you engaged and impactful enough to make you read Kafka's other works)

The Secret History by Donna Tartt (it's either love or hate with this one)

On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong ( Am I recommending this book because I am Tateve Simonyan and they are Ocean Vuong? Yes. Is it one of (if not the) most beautiful accumulation of words you'll ever read? Yes.)

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky (I read this one at the age of 14 and remember not being able to put it down. Additionally, it's filled with wonderful music recommendations.)

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (need I say more?)

Perhaps you'd better start with short stories?

Men Without Women by Haruki Murakami

The Secret Lives of Church Ladies by Deesha Philyaw

A Manual for Cleaning Women by Lucia Berlin

People From My Neighbourhood by Hiromi Kawakami

Where the Wild Ladies Are by Aoko Matsuda

Or maybe you'd like some poetry books?

Crush by Richard Siken

War of the Foxes by Richard Siken

Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong

Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth by Warsan Shire

Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky

If I Don't Know by Wendy Cope

Now, buckle up, love, cuz you're in for a wild ride 🌼

[mickey-henry]

𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐈 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝

pairing: bucky barnes (bookstore au) x reader

summary: eager to escape the heat, you find yourself in the presence of a mesmerizing bookstore and an irresistibly beautiful man.

word count: 2.3K

author’s note: hello! welcome to my third fic😊 I’m eager to share this with you all! I now have a taglist (the link is also in my bio) if you’re interested🥰 thank you to @certainaesthetic​ for helping me workshop this idea, @fuckandfluff​ for the grammar help, and @midnightf​ for hyping me up as I wrote it! likes, reblogs, messages, replies, and comments are cherished! the header images are from pinterest and the divider is from here. I hope you like it! 💖

You’re desperate to escape the smoldering heat. It’s too hot to rest in the car; it’s been baking all day beneath the sweltering summer sun, parked just outside your place of work. If you attempt to sit in it now, you’d only be greeted with a wave of torrid air, stung with the touch of your seatbelt, and burnt from the searing leather of your steering wheel.

You’re off from work earlier than usual—the blinding sun is usually long beneath the horizon before you head home for the day. The pathetically small sun visor does nothing to shade your eyes from the blazing sunlight. Rather than driving half-blind, you decide to wait out the setting sun.

As you ponder how to spend the rest of your afternoon, you realize that now is an opportune time to visit the new bookstore, The Book Haven, that opened last month. After changing out of your uniform and throwing your work stuff in the trunk, you walk across the plaza to the shop entrance.

The bookstore greets you with the chime of a bell and a rush of cool air as you step in, a blissful contrast to the scorching outdoors. The welcoming scent of coffee grounds and the tangy aroma of old books accompany the refreshing breeze. You take a deep breath, appreciating the convivial atmosphere. The bookstore is a sublime sight; words almost can’t describe its charm.

Shelves like skyscrapers—stuffed to the brim with books, magazines, and comics—graze the ceiling. An intimate reading nook lies next to the door; an inviting window seat dwells beside a floor-to-ceiling window. Clear mosaic window clings cover the glass, casting beautiful rainbows throughout the store. Stringed vintage light bulbs illuminate the shelves; candle-lit sconces adorn the top corners of each one. Oriental rugs lay between the shelves, covering a dark mocha floor. Tucked in the back of the store is a small coffee cranny, hidden at first glance. Frank Sinatra’s charming, rich vocals travel through the air, tickling your ears. The owner clearly put the utmost time, energy, and love into the creation of their shop. It is unequivocally perfect and already one of your favorite places.

You wander to the classics section, enthralled by the exquisite covers. Sensing someone nearby, your eyes glance at movement caught in the corner of your eye. Your stomach somersaults at the stunning stranger. The instant you lay your eyes on him, you forget to breathe for a moment—your breath engulfs your throat. You’re astounded by the Adonis of a man before you.

Bristles of scruff grace his defined jawline—his low man-bun neatly styles his dark chestnut hair. A grey short-sleeve button-up shirt hugs his toned arms; a white tank top clings to his lean, fit frame; cuffed slim-fit khaki pants, help up by a bronze braided belt, embrace his thick thighs; and weathered, chunky brown leather shoes don his feet.

Through the rose-colored glasses that surround your heart, your soul imagines a life with a perfect stranger. The hopeless romantic in you can’t help but steal glances, hoping to catch a better glimpse of him. The moment he turns to walk away, your heart sinks to your stomach. You hope this isn’t the last time you see this gorgeous man.

A few minutes later, you’re mulling over a collectible edition of The Catcher in the Rye, attempting to justify purchasing yet another copy of your favorite book. A melodic voice interrupts your pondering. “That’s a pretty edition of The Catcher in the Rye you’ve got there.”

You turn towards the charming voice. Lo-and-behold, it’s the love of your life: the handsome stranger you’ve mentally lived a lifetime with. His beauty is even more profound up close: now you can see that his eyes are a lovely shade of blue. His eyes, haunted by a subtle sadness, draw you in, unlike anything you’ve experienced before. You find yourself entranced in his sea-blue current; you could easily drown in his gaze. You attempt to hide your awestruck expression and converse with him like a normal human being. “I agree! I already own a copy though, do I really need a new one?”

“I think we both know the answer is always yes,” he assures.

“Okay, you’ve convinced me. I'll get it! Thank you for justifying my unnecessary purchase.”

Your words hang in the air, everything going quiet as you wait for the ravishing stranger to introduce himself. The two of you stare in silence at each other, the tension thickening as the seconds pass by. After a few moments, his face flashes in realization—you were waiting for his name.

“I’m Bucky,” he offers with an enchanting smile, extending his hand out to you. You share your name as the two of you shake hands. Your eyes stare down his veiny arm to his ring-studded fingers grasped around yours. You allow yourself to imagine for a few moments how amazing those fingers would feel tracing your arms, tangling your hair, and teasing your inner thigh. Your lustful reverie comes to an abrupt halt at the sight of the book nestled inside the crook of his elbow: The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, the bane of your existence. You scoff with furrowed brows; of course, Mr. Handsome Stranger would be interested in the one book you despise.

“Got something to say there, sweetheart?” he questions with an amused grin.

“Out of all the classic novels in this entire store, that’s the one you chose? The Metamorphosis?”

“What’s wrong with this one?” he jives.

You pause for a second, debating whether it’s worth it to argue with a stranger. The pondering lasts only a few seconds; the exhaustion from your day disintegrates your filter. Besides, you loathe The Metamorphosis.

“What isn’t wrong with it? The dude wakes up thinking he’s an insect? The reader has to sit there throughout the entire book, wondering whether he’s a man or a bug? What the actual fuck? I didn’t appreciate the existential crisis that book gave me at fifteen; if I can help someone else avoid the suffering caused by that monstrosity, I'm going to do my part,” you huff, unamused by the joy Bucky seems to gain from your zealous analysis.

“Wow, what a passionate review! Perez Hilton would be envious of your slander. Okay then, what classic would you recommend instead?”

You cross your arms, expecting him to challenge your response. “The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde.”

“That’s a play,” he counters.

“It’s published as a book; it counts! It’s witty, playful, and has a happy ending, which is the most important point of all. It also doesn’t make you want to pull a Fahrenheit 451 and burn every copy in existence,” you attest.

He steps closer to you, tucking loose strands of his hair behind his ear. “Life doesn’t always have a happy ending, sweetheart.”

Great, there he goes again with that freaking pet name; it’s going to be the death of you. He knows your name, you just gave it to him, yet here he is, infuriatingly insisting on calling you sweetheart instead. Stupid pretty boy with his ocean blue eyes and amorous smile.

“That’s exactly the point,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “So, why would I want to read something that doesn’t end well? If I’m going to escape this reality for a while, it better be for a happier one.”

“And if it's not?”

“Then I’ll throw the book across the room and make up my own happy ending!”

“Ooh, aggressive,” he tuts. “The owner of this place might not be too happy with you if you’re throwing books all over the place; it’ll scare away the customers.”

“Then it’s a good thing the owner isn’t here,” you interject confidently, knowing full well you have no idea who the owner is.

“Well, that just isn’t true, sweetheart. You’re looking right at him.”

He’s lying—he has to be. Why would a dreamboat like Bucky own a bookstore?

You scoff, “you’re not the owner of this place.”

“I’m not? What makes you say that?” he banters.

“People like you don’t own bookstores!” you exclaim.

“People like me?” he goads, cocking his head to the side. The action erupts butterflies in your stomach.

“Attractive people!” you groan.

“So you think I’m attractive?” he plays, stepping to close the gap between you.

“Psh, no, you wish,” you muster. The heat spreading across your cheeks betrays your bluff.

There are mere inches between the both of you now; you hope he can’t hear your racing heartbeat. You watch his eyes go down from yours to your mouth and back up again. He eyes you with a smirk, his teeth playfully tugging his bottom lip. It takes everything in your power not to give in to his spell.

“I’ve known you for what, five minutes? I don’t go around kissing strangers, Bucky,” you falter, taking a step back from his closeness.

“Then let’s not be strangers, sweetheart. Grab a coffee with me; I know a nice place, not far from here,” he flirts, gesturing to the counter at the back of the store.

“Let me learn more about what goes on in that pretty little head of yours,” he purrs, his breath tickling your cheek.

“Okay, fine. I’ll have a coffee with you,” you surrender.

A bright, honeyed smile dons his face.  

“It better be good, though. Not the stale crap you usually get in the middle of the afternoon.”

“I’d only give you the best, sweetheart,” he winks, extending his right hand. You take it; he gives you a soft squeeze before weaving you through the towering shelves.

Your discussion continues with another passionate book review as he prepares your drink. He’s a sucker for gritty dystopian novels while you gravitate towards sappy romances. He shares his passion for painting as he guides you to the reading nook. The artwork hung on the edges of the bookcases is crafted by him—a detail you hadn’t noticed at first glance. His stunning work features both landscapes and people. He loves to sit in a picturesque landscape and paint for endless hours. Occasionally, he takes his old polaroid as he explores the town, snapping moments between strangers, translating their intimacy to canvas when he gets home.

He gestures for you to take a seat in the reading nook before handing you our steaming cup of joe. You sit with your legs crossed, your hands hugging the mug in your lap. Bucky sits with his leg draped over the side of the bench, his left foot pressing into his right thigh. The conversation shifts topics; the two of you divulge your desires and unfulfilled ambitions. You aren’t sure if it’s the look in his eyes, the sweet cup of joe in your palms, or the aroma of coffee surrounding you, but in his presence, your senses feel wide awake.

Before you know it, the mesmeric moon replaces the sizzling sun, melting away the blistering heat, and the steaming cup of coffee in your hands has long chilled. Bucky’s employee interrupts the blissful rendezvous, informing him that all the closing duties are complete, and he’s headed home for the night.

You stare at your watch in shock—it's five past nine. Where did the time go? You apologize profusely to the poor kid who had to close up alone; he assures you it’s no problem.

A melancholic pit in your stomach forms as you turn back to Bucky. He’s nestled himself into your soul; you don’t want to say farewell to him so soon. He has a sad glint in his eyes; you hope it’s because he’s also dreading the end of this perfect night.

“Can I walk you to your car?” he asks timidly, his earlier suave demeanor gone from his voice. He stands up in front of you, offering his arm to escort you.

“I’d love that,” you reply with a shy grin, grabbing his arm and hugging it tightly.

In the blink of an eye, you’re in front of your car. You let go of his arm and lean against the trunk. You stare into his eyes, hoping that he can see without the use of words how much you don’t want this moment to end. There’s a few moments of painful silence before Bucky clears his throat.

“So, now that we’re not total strangers, how about that kiss?” he flirts with pleading eyes.

“Okay,” you reply with a bashful smile.

He slowly reaches his hand towards your cheek, softly stroking it with his thumb. He presses his forehead against yours. “Are you sure you want to do this? ‘Cause if we do, you might not be able to get rid of me, sweetheart.”

“Yes I do, Bucky,” you giggle.

He grins as he gently presses his pillowy pink lips on yours. The kiss steals all the air from your lungs—his touch sends tingles throughout your body, electrifying your veins. You’re breathless when your lips finally part.

“Let me get your number before I let you go,” Bucky insists. You nod and hand him your phone, unable to form a coherent thought.  The ghost of his lips and fingers trace your figure. You’re barely acquainted with his tender touch, yet you feel naked without it, yearning to once again be within his grasp.

You exchange phones—adding your number and name with a sparkling heart emoji and swiftly passing his phone back before you can change your mind. Bucky snaps a quick selfie for his contact, smirking for the camera. You grin when you see he also put emojis by his name: a beetle and a kissy-face.

He pecks your cheek before opening the car door for you. “Hope to see you around, lovebug.” The new pet name burns your cheeks and erupts butterflies in your stomach.

He doesn’t leave the parking lot until your car disappears completely from his view.

You drive home with thoughts of Bucky swirling in your mind. You send a silent thanks to the universe for bringing this beautiful man into your life. His voice, touch, and smile echo in your thoughts for the remainder of the evening—his presence paving its way through your dreams. You’re falling hard and fast; you only hope he’ll be there to catch you.

tagging a few mutuals who expressed interest in this story🥰please fill out the taglist form if you’d like to be tagged in the next story! 💖

@ritesofreverie @midnightf @certainaesthetic

[anisecandy]

Here’s a cute spidervenom au:gorgon Eddie and blind Peter

Part of the reason why it took so obnoxiously long for me to reply, was that this is my third attempt at writing with this premise. Two first were set in the typical kinda past fantasy setting and turned out to be painfully mediocre and boring to write. So I’ve changed the setting to a modern one! I feel like there are still some issues, but... I want to post it already.

warning: includes non-human discrimination, medical mistreatment and mentions of eye trauma. Yeah, I also didn’t expect this.

*If you find this fic offensive in any form, please let me know. I’ve had best intentions, but if my ignorance has led to creating a piece that is hurtful, I’ll do my best to fix it.

Eddie hated taking the suppressors. It was almost funny how such tiny bottles of eye drops could cause so much pain. His head hurted from the moment he applied them in the morning, till late hours of night. Last time he was able to see the whites of his eyes among the tangled threads of broken veins was before he came to the city. From then on, his eyes began to look as if instead of eyedrops he was applying tabasco sauce on them.

And yet, the protective goggles were almost as bad.

Not because they caused him simillar more pain, no. While they were a slight bother with their coarse design, he could have gotten used to that. It was because they were a telltale sign. He could hide his hair, and if he was careful enough, there was little chance somebody would notice his forked tongue. The scales weren't so easy to conceal. Still, many races had scales. The eyeshields though? How do you hide an obligatory Goliath among goggles that screams, Look! See this guy? He's a monster! If it wasn't for the government mandated precautions he would have petrified you maybe without even noticing it!

Why did he even have to wear it? He was taking his damn suppressors. They may have tried to burn his eyes out every time he used them, but he did so nonetheless. Why did he have to wear what essentially amounted to a plate with a "Hey, I'm a gorgon, hate me!" engraved in the most impossible to miss font known to men? And if it was really so irreplaceable, why the obsession with forcing him to use the cursed drugs as well?

"Because it's a double level safe-fail system, Brock." Dr Kafka didn't even bother to look up from his papers as she spoke. "If the eyeshield breaks, there are still suppressors to fall back on. If the suppressors malfunction or you don't take them, the eyeshield makes up for it. It isn't hard to understand."

Eddie hissed at her.

Dr Kafka sighed and placed her hands over the desk, folding the fingers in an openly annoyed manner.

"Do we have to go through this every week? Can't you just fill out your report and questionnaire for us to analyze like you should, without making everything into a problem?"

"Well, when I opened this week's ration of the suppressors they were still attempting to dissolve my eyes, so no," he replied, half baring his teeth. "We can't."

"Stop being so difficult about some small side-effects."

"If I lose my eyesight, I'll sue you."

"Sure Eddie,"she said in a tone one could use while talking to a child who's being unreasonable. "You'll sue a government faculty. Now, are we done? I have others to admit.”

With a huff, he got up from his place, giving each movement enough flare to make sure that Dr Kafka knew exactly just how pissed off he was. Before he reached the door though, she called him once more. Reluctantly, he looked back, rubbing his eyes when a stray ray of the sun hit them, setting his optic nerves on fire.

"What is it, doctor?," he growled.

Her face softened, the change was so subtle though that it escaped him in the sharp light.

"Look, Brock, maybe the city just isn't for you. There aren't many gorgons who decide to live here. You've been here for just a month or so and it's already starting to get too hard for you. Why make life so hard for yourself?"

His hand lingered for a second on the knob, before he sharply turned away, tugging it toward himself.

"I have my reasons."

The food in the cafeteria looked horrible. The portion intended for the non-humans, that is. There were some plastic bags filled with blood for the vampires and some raw meat, presumably for, well, everyone else. It wasn't even cut in reasonable portions. Somebody just took chunks of flesh the size of an adult’s head and threw them in a container. How were you even supposed to eat it, without looking like a savage? The dinner knives and forks available in the cafeteria were useless against them.

Usually Eddie went straight home from the weekly interviews, but today he just wasn’t in the mood to risk injuring himself while cutting the ingredients for the dinner. His head and eyes ache got so bad that he’d without a doubt make a sashimi out of his hands. Ha! Some of those humans would probably pay a high price for such a gourmet meal. They had such a rich history of collecting gorgons’ heads. Why stop there? Go, knock yourself over. Have some limbs, gorge yourself on the entrails.

He sighed, passing over the poor excuse of a food buffet and headed toward the “human section”, where he threw all kinds of meat on his plate. Anything was fine, as long as there weren't many additions. It wasn’t that he couldn’t eat vegetables or grain based products at all… but they were adding them to everything. Honestly, the sorry meat lumps looked the most appetizing out of everything, but Eddie refused to make a show out of himself. Even if he could see some young werewolves not having such restraints.

The lady at the register tried not to stare too much, when she gave him the added up price and was waiting for him to pick out the right bills. He could hear some hissing in the queue behind himself. Somebody muttered “mice-eater country idiot”. Not snapping at them that he knew perfectly well how human currency worked, thank you very much, but their shitty suppressors were making his vision shaky and blurry, took all the energy he had left for the day.

Somehow, there were still some free tables. Thank God. He’d start biting, if he had to put up with any more humans- no, scratch that, with anyone in his near proximity for the next few hours. He took a table in the corner closer to the door that was still fairly remote from the main dining area, where most of the people were eating. Before digging in, he closed his eyes for a moment of relief, resting his head on his palms. It hurt so damn much. He wished he took more painkillers from home. The human ones were no good and the pharmacies barely had any medication suitable for his kind. His sister promised to send him more, but the package would come the next wednesday.

He wondered if he’d still be sane by then.

An unexpected tug at his seat’s back tore him out from his thoughts. With a jolt, he turned back to face the person responsible for it, who was at the moment loudly cleaning his throat.

“Ooops! Sorry, usually this spot is free,” he said, smiling apologetically. “Would it make a difference if I said that I didn’t see you?”

“Sure you didn’-,” Eddie bit his tongue and his snakes that just sprung out of his hood stopped midway, closing their ready to sting mouths awkwardly.

Because, well. The guy in front of him had quite a solid case. With a food tray and a cane in one hand, he moved the other one to the table top, tracing over it, as he walked, before reaching the free seat that he first nudged softly with the tip of his shoe. While he was sitting down, Eddie could see a little bit of some scars peaking over the frames of his dark glasses. The uneven patch of jagged skin reached his eyebrow in one place, something that he didn’t notice at first, as it was covered by his somewhat messy, dark bangs.

“Mind if I join you?”

“...No, go ahead.” It didn’t seem like the blind man really cared about his permission, but he felt like it would be appropriate to give one anyway.

This could have been awkward, with how they both went silent afterward. If Eddie cared, that is. He didn't. All he wanted was to finish his food, go home and rinse his eyes with a few gallons of water and some saline solution. And then if his headache allowed, work on an essay he'd been polishing for the last few days.

Unfortunately, the blind man didn't seem to share his attitude toward the situation.

"Are you new around here?" He asked in between bites of boiled vegetables.

Oh god, he tried to start a conversation.

Ignoring him would be rude. But well, it wasn't like being nice was Eddie's priority right about now. Still, he already almost snapped at this poor, unsuspecting guy. And that wasn't a good look. Keeping up appearances was important. Right. Right.

An affirmative hum was the most he was able to force out of himself. Not his most charming and eloquent moment, but he was hoping that the blind man would lose interest.

He did not.

"Heh, I knew it. Most people around here remember this as my spot," he explained, talking with his mouth stuffed with chicken. "Plus you have a pretty characteristic accent. Would've remembered if I'd met you before."

"Accent? Seriously?" Eddie asked sarcastically, before he was able to stop himself. He even stressed his "s'' more than he usually would, making the sentence sound like a prolonged hiss. Whatever.

The blind man laughed awkwardly, rubbing his neck.

"Alright, so maybe 'accent' isn't exactly the right word here. Pronunciation then? Your English is good though, really."

"Might be because I'm American," he responded dully.

"Yeah, I mean- That is-," the blind man stumbled over his words, quickly becoming more and more red by seconds.

Eddie sighed.

"It's the official language. If you want to get anywhere in life, you have to learn it. Whether you're human or not."

"Well, um... This makes sense. Sorry for being... " he paused, making a general gesture.

"Patronizing?,” Eddie suggested, giving him an unimpressed look.

"Yeah."

"Condescending? Conceited?"

"Okaaay, that's a little excessive."

"Arch?"

The blind man was silent for a moment. A blink of annoyance reflected on his face, before he hid it with a crooked smile matching his raised eyebrows.

"A little hard to get along with, aren't we? Must be doing you a lot of favors here, eh?

"Sure it is. I have to fit in with you city folks, don't I?"

They stared each other down, or rather, Eddie stared the other man down, while he made a face at him.

"You know what? Fine. Want to eat alone, because you're too much of a jerk to recognize another person trying to make you feel welcomed? Be my guest."

"Oh, excuse me, I didn't realize I'm talking to such an altruistic samaritan," he snarled, turning away from him. "Welcomed, my ass, like you could even know what it's like to be an outsider," he mouthed.

"Well," he said in a low voice. "Imagine that I do."

Like a bucket of cold water.

The blind man got ready to get up, pulling his tray closer.

"Wait... I'm sorry."

He stopped for a second before shrugging and proceeding. Unsurprisingly. There really wasn't a way to make up for this behavior. But Eddie wanted to at least... Explain himself.

"I've had a horrible week. Well, more like a month, to be honest.” He dragged a hand over his face. “The headaches from suppressors are killing me. I feel like they were made with an intention of melting people's eyes. I've just been... Really on the edge.”

The blind man pushed his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. He had a judging expression on and seemed to reluctantly consider his apology. In the end, it wasn't what he responded to.

"Are you sure you're not allergic to them? This isn't a normal reaction.”

That was what Eddie suspected at first as well, but he shook his head. Quite uselessly, so he quickly followed it with a proper sentence.

"I'm sure. I've had all kinds of tests taken, before I was allowed to move here. I would have known."

"Right..." The blind man crossed his arms, falling deep in thoughts. "What kind of suppressors are those?"

Eddie hesitated. Still, he said,

"For petrification. They are obligatory for gorgons."

It was as if something sprung to life in the brunet. He turned to him, putting one hand over his chin and mouth and supporting its elbow with the other one.

"Wait, is it really this bad?," He murmured into his fingers with what Eddie refused to describe as "concern". "Say, on the scale of one to ten, how much it hurts on average?"

Such sudden interest with his condition coming from someone from the faculty's personnel was new. The fact that said someone was being treated by him with a significant amount of coldness added to making the situation suspicious.

“Why do you care?”

The blind man seemed surprised by his question.

“What do you mean, why? If the drug is malfunctioning then we have a serious problem on our hands.”

“Do you, though?,” Eddie asked in an unamused tone. “Because so far I didn’t get such an impression.”

The brunet’s lips split open, before he furrowed his eyebrows and leaned on his cane.

“Hold on,” he said, tapping on the table top. “You didn’t report this, right? I mean, if you did, you would have gotten some substitute.”

“Or I could have just gotten an assurance that everything is fine, which also would have gotten things done.” This man seemed to be a little naive, for, apparently, some sort of scientist. "Oh, and it’s seven or eight, by the way. It hurts a lot most of the time, but sometimes there are moments when it's so intense that I can't even think."

"Damn," the hiss the blind man gave out could have competed with those of Eddie's snakes. "I knew those needed more tests."

Now, if wasn't this interesting.

“Did you work on them?”

“No, but I know a guy who did.” With a huff, he crossed his arms. “Good at his job, made sure that it worked. But I’ve heard gossip that he neglected checking for the prolonged side effects on a properly large group. No wonder it’s a mess.”

No fucking wonder indeed.

“Can we get this clear? Every day I have to give myself a splitting headache because some lousy nerd forgot to make sure if this shit he cooked up in his lab was even safe to use?” He didn’t believe his ears. Well, actually, he did. He even suspected something like this, considering how gorgons weren’t really common or interested in humans’ affairs. But hearing it as a fact was still infuriating. He leaned back on his chair and proclaimed almost calmly, in a matter of fact manner, “I’m going to murder him.”

“Or, you know, if you don’t want a life sentence,” the blind man carefully interjected, “you could for now go with me and I could run some check ups on you and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Here he went again, acting like he cared. What a weird guy.

“Creepy,” Eddie mumbled.

“What?”

“Don’t you have stuff to do? Why would you even want to help?”

“Because-” He paused, as if the question only now reached his brain and melted down in confusion. “What kind of person wouldn’t? Firstly, you seem to need it and besides the suppressors were made by a faculty I work for. So if they are faulty, this is kinda my responsibility too. First, do no harm, and all this.”

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“That one is about doctors. Not- whatever kind of mad scientists you are here.”

“Details. So, are you going to come with me or not?”

He considered him. The brunet, despite the personality which Eddie decided he didn’t like, didn’t appear to be dangerous. Still…

“I have work today,” he lied, just in case.

The blind man nodded and began going over his pockets, before tugging out a pen with an almost chewed out tip.

“Got any paper? I’ll give you my number and working hours. So we could figure something out later.”

Eddie hesitated. He didn’t trust most people and he definitely didn’t trust people in white coats.

But his eyes DID hurt.

He tore away a sheet from his notes and extended hand with it toward the brunet.

“Here.”

The brunet's prelonged silence was more telling than any kind of remark and Eddie suddenly felt really dumb.

“Riiight. Maybe you’ll, er, dictate it for me?”

“Yeah, that would be better,” the other man snorted.

When they were done, he said his break will soon end, so he’s going to head back to his lab.

“Oh, and by the way,” he added, as he picked up the plate with his uneaten food. “Name is Peter Parker.”

Eddie got up from his place, extending his hand out, before awkwardly letting it fall down, not sure how he’d be supposed to initiate a handshake with him.

“Sorry for making you miss dinner, Peter.” He said instead. “Also, I’m Eddie Brock.”

Peter nodded and turned away, sliding his cane over to the wall.

“See you soon, maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Maybe was a potent word. Maybe he won’t go insane so soon. Maybe this weirdo will really be of help. And maybe… maybe he’d just found an interesting case to cover.

Eddie smiled to himself. After all, is there anything that the public love more than a good scandal?

Here it is. The premise for this au; Peter tries to fix the malfunctioning suppressing gorgon medication and through this he and Eddie get closer. He also uses this as an opportunity to regain respected position among his peers which he’d lost after the accident that blinded him, despite his unchanged competence. Meanwhile, Eddie tries to look into the creation and failure of it in hope of getting material that would have helped him become a respected journalist - which is a dream by following which he’d arrived in the city.

[nameless-shrimp]

MYSTERIES || OSAMU DAZAI

↳ PAIRING: Osamu Dazai x F!Reader

↳ PRONOUNS: she/her

↳ TYPE: story

↳ WARNINGS: suicide, mentions of sexual content, swearing, heavy grammar errors, slight season 2 spoilers, PM!Dazai

↳ AUTHOR'S NOTE: this was my first bsd one-shot, be nice. my writing from when i wrote this has changed to how it is now. anyways, i hope you enjoy this. the series will be a wild ride, and lots of fun! hehehe.

↳ NEXT PART: EPISODE ONE - Fortune Is Unpredictable And Mutable

BEFORE READING:

↳ The story of Bungo Stray Dogs written by Kafka Asagiri.

Osamu Dazai was filled with so many fascinating mysteries. Part of you ached to yearn for more but he had a serious tone; it was almost frightening—because with a change of that warmhearted smile that you had grown fond of throughout the years could suddenly turn into a dark stare as he gazed his sight away from you. Clearly, he never wanted to talk. Unless they were endless, annoying jokes or his flirtatious comments thrown at you, his personal life was an endless void of mystery.

You knew that he was struggling with his own ends of his mysterious life from the way he sat, leg crossed as his ankle rested on his knee while he puckered his lips, humming a song. Or it seemed as if he was stuck on a tune, you couldn’t quite tell, and you were more immersed with gripping on the umbrella in your hands as your head fell back on the damp bench.

Part of you wanted to talk to him even though you had no relationship with him whatsoever. Yet, you also wanted to move seats—though, that could’ve been rude, but after glancing at his fully black attire with the bandages that rested on the man’s face, damp hair sticking to his flushed skin, and he seemed to be in awe of a thought in his head. Not minding that your presence was near him.

He looked like he was in an endless void of misery—or, really, he looked pretty damn frightening.

You purse your lips, thanking yourself that the sound of the train was making its way to the station finally, despite the ungodly late hour. A glance at the clock, realizing that it was past two in the morning. Legs giving into exhaustion. Being out and about at this time was a threat you were willing to take, even if that meant the avoidance of being at home.

However, your eyebrows furrow at the sight of the man who was stretching his arms out and he let out an audible yawn—almost as if he tried to make the noise loud and clear—and he glances around the station before shooting back at you with a sorrowful look. The one stare that faces you, with those hazel hues; empty and dull, whilst his other eye was bandaged up for who fucking knows what.

You blink at him; mind lost in its own cognition.

“Sorry you have to see this,” he chuckles with an emotionless tone while putting his hands in his pockets. A tap of his feet signals impatience.

The train continues its way down the tracks, inching itself closer to the station, and every time the train wails out its call. the man in front of you pushes to take a few steps closer to the railroad tracks.

You couldn’t tell but he had a smile growing on his face; you weren’t sure if it was still filled with a sorrowful, empty void. Without knowledge of who he was, you clutch your umbrella tighter, unsure of what he was planning and why he was avoiding the warning labels that were on the concrete to signal that he was a bit too close to the tracks.

As you part your lips, you drop the umbrella as a gust of wind blew past you and it fell out of your reach. However, none of that even mattered at that point.

Because the man in front of you was ready to jump in front of the incoming train.

You jolt out of your bench, nearly slipping on the puddle below and then right at the split second before he took another step forward to fall right into the tracks, you grab onto his black coat. A quick swing to the left catches him off guard. Both of you tumble down on the ground. And you ignore his inaudible protests and his heaving breaths. Because you had just saved a random stranger from committing suicide and here he was—giving you irritated stares at the fact that you had stopped his inevitable act and you roll him over as far away from the tracks as possible.

“Shit!” You shout out loud; voice audible from the loud train that was speeding past the both of you. Looking down at him, his frustrated glances were fading away before he sighs deeply and rolls his head back on the ground. “Are you okay?”

“I’m alive…” he softly speaks before staring at you with an emotionless look; eyes hollow. “Right?”

You blink. Was he serious?

“Yeah…” you respond.

“Damn.”

“The hell?!” You retort. “You know you were seriously trying to kill yourself, weren’t you?”

“Yup,” he speaks, eyes closing to a flutter as he pouts slightly. “And you happened to ruin my night.”

You were left in awe; nothing but confusion painting your face. “I just saved you.”

“Exactly. So you did ruin my night.”

“Did you really expect me to just sit there and watch?” You raise your voice; audible enough to hear from the loud brakes of the train.

“Kind of,” he shrugs with a bland tone, almost as if disappointment was honeyed in his voice. So smooth—yet filled with tragedy, or so you thought. Really, because this man was trying to kill himself—or, well, he tried.

“I wasn’t gonna let you die!” You exclaim, grasping onto his coat before you loosely let go of your grips on him. “S-Sorry… I just—”

“Hmm?” He hums; your eyebrows raise.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh boy!” He claps his hands as he opens his eyes, a hint of humorous glow was in sight of his one noticeable, unbandaged eye. “The number of times I get asked that in my life!”

“I’m guessing you get asked that a lot?” You question, catching your breath.

“No. Not really.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t pity me,” he huffs before softening his tone. “Who are you anyway?”

“I’m just a stranger who saved you from killing yourself,” you speak blandly, knitting your eyebrows at him. “That’s who I am.”

“A true savior of the night,” he smiles at you. For some reason, you instantly thought he had a mischievous yet intriguing smile. Odd. “You must be my guardian angel.”

“Uh, yeah, no.”

“Aww, would you like to—”

“I’m good,” you say, finally standing up as you glance down at your damp attire, which was soaked from falling to the ground with this mysterious man. “The train’s here. Don’t you have somewhere to go?”

“Did you really think I had a destination when I was planning to kill myself?” He asks you, raising his eyebrows as he shakes his head playfully, suddenly putting on a cheerful tone despite the current situation that you were both in—which was you saving his life and he was bickering you with his annoyance that you rescued him. Like, wow. The audacity of you.

You sigh before running a hand through your hair. “Fair point,” you murmur.

“Anyways, who are you? Really?”

“I’m just… a stranger,” you tilt your head, already feeling this man get on your nerves. “If you really care, my name is Y/N.”

“Dazai Osamu,” he holds out his hand, waiting for you to shake it.

What a fantastic introduction. Saving someone from killing himself and it led to both of you sharing each other’s names. As if the night could get any more fucking weird.

“What brings you out this late at night?” He asks you; with you shaking his hand awkwardly in the process, slowly avoiding eye contact with him.

“I just can’t sleep so I go on walks at night,” you explain.

“Hm, a pretty lady walking on her own at this time of the night? How dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, I like to go out to this diner that’s open twenty-four seven,” you sigh. “Just ‘cause I get hungry at this hour—because I can’t sleep.”

“Well,” the man—Osamu Dazai—helps himself up before looking at you with a wicked smile and eyes filled with interest. Which, kind of creeped you out but—whatever. “Let’s go to that diner then. I must say, I can get hungry after a failed suicide attempt.”

You feel your fingers twitch in annoyance.

Fuck. The night’s about to get even more weird.

❀ - ❀ - ❀

You didn’t expect yourself to be sipping on a straw as you watched a bandaged man chow down on pancakes past—which was now—three in the morning. However, after a few minutes of him asking the waitress to strangle him, you had to scold him to stop embarrassing you because you were a regular customer. Face hidden beneath the white napkins; he continued to babble on about the previous suicide attempts that he had tried but miserably failed.

But you learned a lot about him—whoever Dazai was. Because he portrayed himself as a dark, mysterious person in front of you, who decided to cut his pancakes in small slices first before adding on the syrup (and he said it was because it helped the syrup get in the pancake more, or something as if that made any sense to you) and then he went on about how he liked to go out on his own, almost like you. A similar figure; lost in the dark, ironically to the hue of his black attire.

Both of you did share a common trait, and that was the lack of sleep. Due to the ungodly insomnia, your legs found them out and about throughout these late nights. Much to Dazai’s words, he talked about how fascinated he was with exploring more about the city he lived in. Even though he knew most of it already—whatever that meant—and he always dreamt of jumping off buildings while gazing at a city view; because, to him, that would be a beautiful way to go. Alright. An odd statement, though even past the harsh time of the night, you grew used to the unusual conversation.

You twitched your eyebrows in confusion every time he went on about suicide. Mentally, your mind understood him, though; the unwanted feelings of despair and mental agonizing torture—the type of feelings that knocked on your door at the worst time and then with one snap of your heartstrings, it would leave you spiraling into a black abyss. Tragic. Hopelessness; at least, Dazai seemed to understand it so well, despite his giddy personality. And those feelings sucked you in. Without a doubt, you could tell that he preferred to hide his emotions away.

(Despite the fact that he decided to commit suicide in front of a stranger—which was you—but you decided to ignore that thought for a bit.)

And he went on about his antics until you decided to ask him the most basic questions to get to know a person. The usual ‘favorite color’ bullshit, until you learned that he was almost nineteen years old and he preferred not to discuss his personal life (which was completely understandable given the weird situation you had ended up in). Though he did mention he worked, he explained that he was a simple guy who worked at an office who took care of paperwork or something. The unfortunate matter was that he was mysterious in his own sense.

To act so cheerful and also serious at some points was how Dazai was, and it was difficult for you to distinguish what parts were lies and what remained to be the truth.

Perhaps, that’s the adrenaline high of a mystery to begin with.

“Dazai.”

“Yes, Y/N?”

You glance down at the plate of pancakes that were almost empty and purse your lips, but you decide to inform him, “the syrup is dripping from the plate and it’s getting onto your clothes.”

“Agh!” He shrieks loudly; your nose scrunches. You didn’t know whether to softly snap at him for being so loud—despite the diner being empty except for the both of you—or laugh at his witty act. Sp, instead, you remain silent. “You couldn’t tell me that sooner?!”

A quiet moment. Soon, your eyes roll. “Just noticed.”

“Sure you did!”

“Yup.”

❀ - ❀ - ❀

It didn’t take long for you and Dazai to create a strong bond together.

The night you met him, you explained that you were an ordinary person though you continued to keep yourself hidden from him. If Dazai decided to keep his personal life away from you, it would’ve been a fair game on your end. Thus, late nights of him coming into your apartment became natural; faint scent of alcohol always decorated the air. He wasn’t overly drunk out of his mind, yet your soul caressed him with motherly attention.

Apparently, there had been a bar where he enjoyed to go to with two people he worked with—as so he said, and one night, where both of you decided to go up on the rooftop of your apartment, a blanket spread out on the roof as you both sat together with his large jacket draped over both of you, he explained that he never really had a lot of people in his life that he cared for.

Though he explained that he had grown a caring relationship with his coworkers. However, every time you asked about his occupation, he continued to explain that it was a boring office job that wasn’t all too interesting to talk about. Many times, you had to leave it at that—but it all didn’t matter anyway. The dancing stars up above mattered the most to you; moments were created and memories were born; the moon was the audience to it all.

That same night, you both had two earbuds connected to your phone, and soft music played, with one that he used for one ear as for you, vice versa. The night rests; a peaceful state of mind. Dazai remained to lost in his own puddle of insomnia as you shared the same unfortunate demise with him. Though you found yourself, that with every visit, you felt as if his sudden disappearance the next day after he crashed on your couch turned out to be an empty gulf.

Whenever Dazai spoke about his day, whether it would be those two coworkers or he’d suggest a movie to watch or have those late-night diner visits with just the two of you, you had gotten used to the honeyed voice that slipped through his lips. Sweet. And so tender. How your body relaxes every time a word slip pasts his lips. Laying in bed without hearing that voice before you finally fall into a slumber wasn’t the same as if you were to hear him babble on about something before your eyes would give in.

And you lower the volume on your phone. He looks at you, confusion paints his face. You raise your eyebrows before turning away, looking at the vast city lights that were in front of you both; twinkling with the stars above the both of you. Yokohama remains quiet; steady.

“I’m sorry if this is too personal, but…” your voice trails off before gazing at him; the blank stare on his face stays. “Why do you have a bandage on your eye?”

“This question again, huh?” He sighs playfully before shrugging you off with a wave. “You really want to see my full face so badly?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. With your bandages and everything… if it’s too personal, then it’s okay.”

He closes his eyes and smiles faintly before throwing his hands behind his tousled, dark brown hair. Your eyes widen as he makes his way of undoing his bandages. One rip; the extra bandage on his face falls. Dazai keeps his head down as he tosses the used bandages on the blanket you were both sitting on. In an instant, his hand jolts for the bottle of wine that was in front of him.

With one serious chug, he gulps the liquid down. After the bittersweet taste stings his throat, he places the bottle down on the ground, clanking with the concrete. Dazai sighs but you felt a smile curse upon his lips and then he glances up at you.

And—finally. You were met with those hazel eyes that you wanted to fully see with both of your own irises, and with his gaze staring back at you with that half-witty smile, you could easily see more of his features after he had taken off the bandages. For some reason, the glow of the city lights made it more appealing to notice the column of his neck, the flushed face that he portrayed after chugging down alcohol that stung his throat, and the faint glistening glow that was twinkling in his tipsy eyes.

“Am I that ugly?”

His question catches you off guard as you tighten your lips. You didn’t know what to really say. So, you shake your head.

“Oh thank God,” Dazai laughs out loud before grabbing the bottle again and then insisting ongoing for another chug. You weren’t sure why he decided to drink so much at the moment; perhaps, he was struck with insecurity that he didn’t want anyone else to see or take part in, but with the slightly more exposed face that he portrayed in front of you—maybe, just maybe he showed off that he had grown fond of the trust you both shared.

After gulping down the liquid, he tosses the empty bottle on the ground. It rolled away from both of you, and you feel his head fall down onto your lap. Looking down at the flushed Dazai, who had his lips parted and his hair was tousled in different directions, causes your heart to flutter. And why? You weren’t exactly sure.

Without thinking, you place your hand on his hair, softly petting him. A smile was rewarded from him as he closes his eyes. “Are you okay?” You question him before you realize that you were touching his hair. “Ah, I’m sorry, is it okay—”

“It’s more than okay,” Dazai murmurs.

You gulp, a wave of nervousness washing over you. “I asked if you were okay.”

“I heard.”

“Are you?”

He doesn’t respond.

“It’s okay,” you say, continuing to pet his hair. “I’m here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

He sighs deeply, not wanting to say a word. And the ambient noise filled the empty void that you both were sharing. With his head laying on your lap as you felt the strands of his untidy hair tickle the edge of your fingertips, you realized that this was nice. Not just because of the city illumination gave you a better view of his side profile; light crimson cheeks from the alcohol, the pillar of the neck was that much sharper than you expected, and the slight breaths that fanned their way out from his lips.

You take in a deep breath, trying not to fall into the pit of indescribable feelings that were captivating your chest. “Hey, we—”

He shushes you; hazel eyes were coming to a close and even deeper breaths were fading out from his lips.

“Be quiet,” he orders in a soft tone, almost as if he didn’t want the moment that you both shared to end.

You blink at his response.

“Okay.”

And—you both didn’t share any conversation then. The audible noise of the cars down the street and wind kissing both of your cheeks made the realization hit you harder than you expected. Though you knew you weren’t dense, you hoped that this moment wouldn’t happen and it did anyways. And with one glance down at him, his figure so still and soft yet filled with a mysterious pit, you knew that you were falling in love with him.

Osamu Dazai was filled with mysteries.

❀ - ❀ - ❀

Part of you believed that he was someone that enjoyed mystery novels, so you invested in a few books that were based on thrillers and problem-solving. Some in which there were cases that were unsolved, just like Dazai’s personal life, and even the strong bond of the friendship you had with him, he never spoke a word about his life.

“I figured you’d like them,” you say, and he looks down at the bag in his hands.

There were about five books in the bag, all in decent condition, and some spines were a bit bent but that didn’t matter. All that mattered to you was that smile that rose on his lips. You always found yourself staring at them before glancing up at his facial features; bandages all over his face with a few wrapped around one of his eyes.

And underneath the faint glow of the sun rising, you ignored the fact that he had pounded on your apartment door and shrugged off an exhausted look on his face. Maybe this wasn’t the time to give him books—but you would do anything to see him smile.

Because the curve of those lips made your heart flutter, and if it weren’t for his personality that was so obnoxiously annoying—you had to admit it, though—yet he did wonders to how you felt deep down. Dazai had struck your heart hard, and you could only clench your fists as a glow radiated from his sudden happy tone.

“More books for me, hmm?” He speaks casually—of course, he did. “I have to say, I think you’re spoiling me too much.”

“I—” you say quickly before pursing your lips, unsure of what to even say.

“Seems like they’re all mysteries again,” he notes, reading the summary of one of the books that he held in his hand. “I never really asked but why that genre in particular?”

“Uh…” your voice trails off.

“C’mon now. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, your voice dangling from your lips so faintly that he had to lean in to hear you better. From how he reacted, you bite your bottom lip; heart beating a bit quicker than before. “You kind of seem like someone who’d be a detective.”

“Really now?” He laughs loudly, putting the book back in the bag. He takes the opportunity to sit next to you on the bed; knees touching, and your face feels warm. “Hmm, you have quite an interesting brain, Y/N. But like, why?”

You glance at him, sighing. “Your life is a mystery.”

He blinks at you in response.

You weren’t wrong.

❀ - ❀ - ❀

It was hard holding back your feelings for your closest friend; the one that you saved that one night from his—failed—suicide attempt and you had to hold his witty antics back every time he talked about jumping off a building. Sometimes, his late-night visits got the best of you, because the bed felt more empty without his presence there.

And you two weren’t doing anything—you weren’t even having sex with him. Both of you just laid together; fingers nearly touching. Some nights you were both tipsy, one is drunker than the other, and you shared experiences from your past as he kept quiet about his life once more; no matter how much alcohol he drowned himself in, he continued to lock himself up from you and there was no way to access a key.

However, with both of you laying on top of your covers, he always excused himself to sleep on the couch like the gentleman he was—even though you did question his charmful and humorous personality—and you were left with an empty bed, rustled covers, and used pillows. Empty. A basket of loneliness; only to be asking to have the presence of Dazai’s body around.

You cherished these moments as they continued to become a regular thing. From one a week, to three times a week. Dazai was an unofficial roommate. Though, with late parts of the night, the stars lit up your room. A faint glow. And you sat alone, talking to the moon. Mind lost in curiosity of his whereabouts and his personal life; it had been months at this point.

From stargazing on rooftops and late-night diner visits and cold, evening walks together, you knew that he had to open up to you at some point. Though you knew you were continuing to go mad—especially with how much of himself he kept hidden from you, yet your mind did the same. Hypocrisy. Yet it remained for the best. Because he didn’t need to know what power you held within yourself; the ability you held; it was abnormal, and also, a part of it was not necessary to bring up.

A nightmare was what you had; a dangerous ability. Dazai didn’t deserve to know.

Even when Dazai never opened up about his past and who he was, he continued to be in the moment with you. Whether it would be the usual hangouts you both did, it made it hard for you to sleep because you continued to keep yourself awake some nights in hopes that he’d knock on your door.

However, part of you craved more. Want. A desire that you bestowed for Dazai alone; wanting him to yourself because he was filled with mysteries—and you wanted to be the one that’ll have him open up to you.

Maybe you’d be the one to finally read him; get to skim the summary until you finally read through the chapters and maybe reread your favorite one. Perhaps it could be that one of his childhood memories or his family, or his occupation that he rarely spoke about—it was so hard to keep quiet. And many times, you tried to make your way into his story, but he rarely let any words slip past.

Dazai would tease you. Holy shit. A man at best when it came to that. Such as the act of watching movies at your apartment and he’d throw popcorn at you just for fun. It was hard to believe that a bandaged-up man dressed in secretive, black attire, could act so childish and playful around your presence. Though you didn’t mind it one bit—and instead, it made you fall for him harder. Every second that passed was agonizing torture.

Maybe he didn’t trust you enough to open up to you—yet—or he was already seeing somebody else that would be strumming his heartstrings.

Maybe, fucking maybe.

The majority of the time, he drove you to insanity deep down; this man was doing wonders to your emotions and he wasn’t able to tell how you felt—or maybe, he really wasn’t dumb. He must’ve noticed your true intentions. Hidden feelings. But you did your best to remain secretive.

You look back at the man who was laying on the blanket next to you, eyeing down at how close your fingers were to each other. But he pays no attention. Instead, his eyes were glancing up at the night sky above; the stars were dancing, perhaps there was a lullaby up in the galaxy, and the constellations seemed a bit brighter than usual that night. Or maybe, it was because you were ready to break and beg him to open up to you. Or—just maybe, it could’ve been because your fingers were so close to each other and the bottled up feelings you kept within your heart were on the urge to explode.

“Dazai?” You whisper, inching your pinky to his, wondering if you should hold his hand or not. Part of you wanted to. God. But you also didn’t want to ruin whatever connection you both had for so long—even from a simple act of affection.

“I’m here, Y/N,” Dazai smiles, staring at the sky once more as he turned to you, with a bright, alluring shine to the one eye you were able to make eye contact with. You gulp, wanting to ask about the bandages on his other eye one more time, but what use would that be—it would only lead to subject changes and a darker tone from that side of Dazai that you did not want to hear.

Sometimes, he’d take them off for you if you’d ask, but he never spoke about why he’d wear them or the purpose for them. You theorized that it must’ve been related to his suicide methods in the past, but no matter how many times you asked, he never fell into telling you who he was—who Osamu Dazai really was.

“Really?” Your lips tremble; you felt the need to cry. You were falling in love with him—hard.

Without reacting, you grasp onto his hand and clutch it tight, not bothering to intertwine your fingers with his because you were already making it awkward and there was no need to add fuel to the fire there.

It catches him off guard and his eyes widen. He glances down at you holding onto his hand tightly, and he looks at you but he keeps that smile. The one smile that you adored. To be the only person that could make him smile like that—because it looked real.

“I will always be here, Y/N,” Dazai’s smile grows into a small grin. He looks down at your shaky hand on his and he doesn’t hesitate to intertwine your fingers with his. The look on your face was priceless to him; in response, your face remains hidden beneath the dark surroundings.

“I’m here too,” you smile back, too afraid to make eye contact.

“Look at me, Y/N,” Dazai commands softly.

You couldn’t help but look up, squinting your eyes a bit from your flustered reaction. “Hi,” you choke out.

The emotions were building up. Every time you looked at him, you wanted him to hold you tight and kiss your lips, wanting to have you all to himself, and the feeling of his hands in your hair would be so comforting for you; everything about Dazai was beautiful to you, and even though he had his mysteries, you trusted him that he had good in his heart. A gentle soul, yet lost within his own spirit. Tongue-tied beneath his smile. He never showed any side of him that was dangerous enough for you to twist and turn to another direction; you stayed.

You stayed—even when he stopped by your apartment and he would just suck himself into a quiet void on your couch, not saying a word to you but he was lost in his own storm of thoughts. However, you still stayed, as you offered side hugs and back rubs to help soothe him. And you stayed, even when he’d be a little bit drunk at your door, where clearly he wasn’t himself and he babbled on about attempting suicide once more.

Dazai’s yawn breaks you out of your gaze, causing you to shoot a puzzled glance at him. His eyes falter to a close; the night stays still.

“Let’s go inside if you’re tired,” you sit up, not wanting to let go of his hand but he continues to hum. Within a flash, he grabs onto your waist, pulling you to lay down with him, and you were taken back; the sudden touch and the act that he just did. You remain speechless, already fuming with emotions of how you felt about him.

His words stop your train of endless thoughts, “let’s stay here.”

You blink, licking your lips. “It’s cold,” you comment shyly.

“I’ll keep you warm.”

“Ah…” you murmur, realizing that his hand was on your waist and his other hand was still holding onto yours. You were slightly uncomfortable, but you didn’t want to move to lose the moment you had with him. “I don’t thi—”

Dazai shushes you; eyes still in a tight close. “Stay quiet.”

“We are really close to each other tho—”

“Hmm?” He raises his eyebrow, still keeping his eyes closed but you could tell the cheeky and quirky side of him was coming out. “We hug each other all the time. This isn’t any different.”

He was right, but he was also wrong.

Of course, this was different—it felt different.

“Huh? It is different…”

“Don’t think so,” he whispers, clearly showing signs that he was tired.

“Let’s go inside, you’re—”

“Stay with me for a little bit longer.”

Your lips tighten. “But—”

He opens his eyes and then gazes up at you, with the hint of sorrow that was glistening in the color of the one eye you were able to see. Darkness deep within the dull honeyed iris. You weren’t sure if he was contemplating suicide again or if he was going through one of those nights that he’d have every once in a while—you knew he was dealing with whatever the storm was in his head, but Dazai rarely spoke about it or, really, he chose not to speak much about it. A dreadful hurricane. As if the rain ever stopped in his head.

It frustrated you, but you also understood him.

“Okay,” you respond, not breaking the gaze you two were sharing.

❀ - ❀ - ❀

Loneliness remains to sit still. Hard to shake off. The conclusion of you not being able to hold back the way you felt about Dazai was reaching its turning point, to where the nights you found yourself weeping into your pillows. Only because Dazai was someone that actually took the time to befriend you, though you knew nothing of his personal life; as typical, his past remains a mystery, hidden beneath the cracks. Rough books tucked away on shelves.

He sits in front of you, legs spread out as his black coat laid on the coffee table. He tilts his head, a smile glued on his face as he kept that puzzled look. “So, what have you brought me out here—”

“Dazai, I—” you interrupt him with a lip bite.

Your eyes started to water; a rejection was bound to occur. There was still time to turn away from this. And you knew the reaction was coming—you knew your best friend all too well. You knew he didn’t feel the same, or even if he did, he wouldn’t be committed to anything—he was too confusing for you. Secretive. You knew nothing about his personal life, or who Osamu Dazai even was.

“Y/N?” His tone changes, leaning forward on the chair in front of you. It seems like he was about to stand up to go to you but you hold out your palm to signal him to stay where he was at. “Hey, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“No, I—” your hands shake, unsure of how to properly word the sentences coming out of your mouth. There would be many different ways on how you could’ve gone about this whole situation, and you didn’t even rehearse it because—damn, there was no way you would’ve been able to handle the situation properly because it was Dazai out of all people.

He looks at you, leaning inch by inch, wavy dark hair resting on his face and you gulp. You couldn’t do this; not now. There was no way.

Quickly, you get up from the sofa, trying not to make a fool out of yourself but it was already happening. Dazai stares at you from the chair; mouth gaped open, puzzled look remains still on his face until you open one of your drawers, rummaging through old mail and small knick-knacks.

Tears drip down on your cheeks; thankfully, you were easing down from the slight crying and you bite your bottom lip, holding back so many emotions. Though a good amount of them began to pour out a little. It was hard to keep yourself at bay, but with Dazai sitting at the chair, watching every bit of your movements, it made it difficult to keep still and manage a confession to spring out of your lips.

You push aside a bunch of random objects, all ranging from paper clips and dried-up pens until your eyes dart across an object that caught your attention. It was a turquoise pendant that you stored away in here for no reason—you couldn’t even recall the reason you kept this or where you even got the pendant to begin with.

You grab onto the pendant and then turn to face Dazai, who was now right next to you.

“Shit!” You yelp, nearly stumbling back. “You scared me!”

“Me?” He knits his eyebrows, pointing at himself as he continues to gawk at you. “You were the one that was crying!”

“Yeah, I—” you sigh and then hold out the pendant, nearly knocking the drawer out in the process. “This. Uh, this is for you.”

He blinks at you and stares at the faintly shiny turquoise pendant in your hands. He notices your hands were trembling and he took note of this. You bit your lip nervously as Dazai places a palm on your hand. Blank looks were exchanged. His confused stare softly fades. A softening smile now rises; your heart flutters. And—God, you hated him for making you feel the way you did, but all at the same time, you wanted him to yourself.

“You got so nervous to give me a gift?” Dazai chuckles; his laugh ringsyour ears with that heavenly, smooth tone. “You were so nervous that you started to cry?”

No. “Yes,” you say.

“Ha!” He laughs loudly, finally taking the pendant from your hand, and then he looks down at it, eyeing it carefully before staring back at you, “I love it.”

“You do?” This was not the plan.

“Of course. It’s from you, Y/N.”

There he goes. Such glossy talk; the type to capture a woman’s attention so easily. As if it was the most basic damn challenge of his life, and even so, throughout all of the late-night diner visits, Dazai took his chances to flirt with young waitresses. Enough to frighten them out of their tight shoes. Though it made you envy them, wishing that he’d gossip all about the talk of suicide with you, despite the topic of the matter being a tad bit unsettling.

Yet, he always continued to be so smooth with his words with you.

And he stands there, eyeing the pendant every now and then. Slowly, your body falls into his chest; faint cologne lingering your nose, hands trembling at the touch. You knew that you both hugged before—of course, but every time he did, without your awareness and the act of surprise that was swayed into the moment, it always left you speechless, with no sudden words to slip from your lips.

The present. No worries. Nothing to dwell deep about the past nor the future. All that mattered was that Dazai kept you close. When he wraps his arms around you, and the slight hum of his lips, he lets himself sway back and forth with you. His grasp is tough; you hug back, throwing his arms around his slim figure.

“Thank you,” he speaks so heavenly and you could feel the smile creep upon his lips.

You couldn’t say anything in return. Instead, you figured a physical reaction would have been better.

So, your grip on him tightens.

❀ - ❀ - ❀

Everything about him was beautiful to you, even though it had been a few months since your friendship blossomed with him, and you were still in the empty void of not knowing any part of his personal life. It was all a secret; though you could only hold it in for so long. And to not be trusted, and to not let the closest person in your life confide in you about anything—but not only did he have to toy with your heartstrings and you felt yourself falling more in love with him.

Alcohol washes over the air, though Dazai chooses not to talk as much as he’d like. You watch him, eyes furrowing into a puzzling state. Half-empty glass lays in front of him. Part of you wanted to question him—especially since he entered your apartment with torn-up clothes and the bandages on his face had vanished.

However, when he entered your apartment with no word coming out from his mouth, you knew that whatever had happened was taking a toll on him and—well, no confession again, not as if you would have been able to get the words across anyway.

“Dazai,” you break the silence, hugging your knees close to your chest as he rubbed the temple of his forehead. He didn’t look tipsy at all; he barely drank, and usually, whenever he’d come in during those difficult nights, he’d babble on about committing suicide or go off on a tangent about how frustrating work was—though he never bothered to vent about what was wrong with work anyways.

“What?” He snaps at you, finally facing you after avoiding your gaze for some time. Soon, his face softens. His eyes had that dull emptiness that you remembered seeing through those tough nights he had; only this time, it felt different.

“What happened?” You ask, continuing to keep your gaze at him.

His eyes burn with that empty look; the hazel color had lost its touch and it was in its own depth of despair. Dazai looks away, wavy hair tickling his pale cheeks and he keeps that empty stare as he gazes down at his hands. Not even his fingers moved the slightest as he spoke, “I lost someone.”

Your eyes widen. “Today?”

“Yeah.”

“Dazai, oh my God,” you place your feet down and shift on the couch to lean closer to him. Placing a palm on his knee, he allows the small bit of touch to happen, not minding the contact you were making with him was making you feel warm in the inside and—no, your emotional feelings for him had to be put aside; what mattered was him. “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything except rest his head on your shoulder, which was new; he never really did this. The most affection you’ve ever received from him was hugs and—that was it. But this. This feeling.

It felt new and calm—despite the grieving state that he portrayed.

“I’m here for you, okay?” You reassure him, patting his knee lightly and you feel his breaths fan your neck. “I am here.”

He sigh deeply. “I know.”

“Dazai, I really mean it.”

He holds his head back up, hair covering part of his eyes as you noticed his eyebrows furrowing at you. “I know.”

“I—” you stop yourself from speaking. You didn’t want to make him more uncomfortable than he already was—or really, you didn’t want to push his buttons any further than you needed to.

“Y/N, I need to tell you something,” Dazai breaths deeply, placing one of his palms on his face before sighing into it. Once he sets his hand down, he continues to meet your gaze.

“Yeah?” You question, unsure of what he was about to say.

Everything was occurring too fast for you; the moment he stepped into the apartment, and not even two hours in, you were met with silence with him until he decided to open up a little bit about what was going on with him—as of recently. And it almost felt like he was opening the pages up of his book, or so it seemed, and he wasn’t keeping his story tucked away for so long; lost in the stack of unread stories.

“I need to go away for some time,” Dazai speaks softly, avoiding eye contact with you; head kept down. Your breath hitches and he nearly flinches at your reaction. “There is a lot I need to think about for myself.”

“Did I—did I do some—”

“No. Fuck, God no,” he interrupts you quickly before Dazai bit his bottom lips. Sighing out of desperation. It was almost as if he held back on his words but you try to rub your hand on his knee to help keep him in check; to realize that you were patient and you were willing to be there with him throughout whatever he was going through—and of course, because you were always open to being there with him. No matter how the night was for him, you did your best to consistently reassure him that you were open for whatever he needed to spill throughout the midnight blues.

“What do you mean then?” You ask, bottom lip quivering.

Dazai notices your saddened reaction and he could only offer a faint smile, and it was forced, yet it looked lovable all at once. “I’m sorry. I’m not a good person,” he grits his teeth angrily before placing his hands on your shoulders, clearly catching you off guard. “For the sake of your safety, I need to get away for some time.”

You stare into emptiness, looking deep into his eyes and it looked as if he was beginning to tear up but with the tough personality that you knew he had, it seemed as if he was holding back with as much strength that he could muster.

“I don’t understand, Dazai, I…” You quietly choke out, licking your lips as you started to clench your jaw angrily. “You’re leaving?”

“I don’t know for how long, I just—I need to get away.”

“You know, everyone will lose someone at some point.”

“No, stop—”

“Dazai,” you call out to him, patting his hands that were on your shoulders. “I’m here, okay? I always have been. Please don’t shut me out.”

“I—” He sighs loudly before shaking his head. “I can’t tell you everything right now. I just need to get away.”

“Dammit Dazai!” You exclaim; the burst of emotions give out. The raise of your voice caught him off guard as he falls back onto the couch. “You never tell me anything, I have tried, and tried to have you open up to me but damn, you won’t! I don’t get it! And now you’re telling me—”

“Y/N, I’m sorry,” Dazai apologies, placing his hands on your own, allowing you to put them down from you tugging your hair and he tightens his grip on your hands. “It’s for your safety and—I just lost a friend. I can’t lose you too.”

“I want to understand,” you sniffle, keeping your eyes shut. “I really do.”

“No matter what, you will be able to find happiness, Y/N. With or without me.”

“Stop talking like that. Please.”

His face moves closer to yours; hands still tucked together. “I’m just being ho—”

“To hell with that!” You shout, letting his hands go as you throw your palms to your face, hoping to cover the tears that were tickling your reddened cheeks. “Where will you even go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dazai, please, just talk—”

“I can’t. Not now.”

“Fuck,” you say with your body trembling. “I can’t hold it in anymore.”

Dazai places a palm on your head, hoping that the soothing pets would comfort you. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I will explain everything one day, I promise, my belladonna.”

You looked up from your palms, raising your brows at the sudden nickname before he smiled at you—the usual real smile that you knew and he placed both of his palms on your flushed cheeks. You couldn’t help but put your hands down, exposing your tearful face to him.Dazai could only continue to keep that smile growing on his lips; it was a sight you’ve been wanting to see all night, and now, you were finally receiving it.

His hands are warm against your skin; heavy breaths fanning from your lips, in hopes to calm yourself down as he did the same with you. “Y/N,” Dazai says your name; you watch his gaze, where his eyes were filled with adoration and a hint of happiness even beamed in the highlight of the hazel hues.

“Dazai,” you respond.

“I want to kiss you.”

Your eyes widen, but you didn’t choose a time to react. Within instinct, you flung yourself onto him, and there weren't a lot of words that needed to be spoken right then and there. All at once, the usual scent of his cologne lingered around your nose as usual, but this time, you could only feel the synchronization of your lips along with his, and finally, you were able to be in time with the connection that you shared with him; he felt the same way, he had to—otherwise, he wouldn’t have done any of this.

And at some point, your hands trailed the scars on his wrist and you found yourself kissing them as he continuously went in tune about how beautiful you looked underneath the basking moonlight that peeked through the windows of your bedroom. It wasn’t long until you felt his lips leave tattoos on your bare chest until he made his way down and you allowed yourself to give into him—of who he was, and everything that Dazai could be.

Never did the thought come across your mind where the rhythmic movement of hips and muffled moans could ever sound so soothing for you—especially from him, and with his hands tickling your thighs and exploring your body made you feel some type of euphoric feeling that you desired for so long from him but you were also at home, in his damaged arms.

With sweat attaching to his hair as he bit on your shoulders, muttering how gorgeous you were and that he was longing for this moment with you, you felt more comfortable with who you were, and you could only do the same as you bit on his collarbones and continued to sing the moans that he had yearned to hear.

It wasn’t long until you were tangled in each other’s arms, breaths heaving out of your mouths, and you even felt his lips on your forehead every so often as you trailed your finger across his exposed chest.

“Don’t leave me,” you softly say, hoping that he’d hear it yet that he didn’t.

But he did. “It’s best for you if I go, at least, for now,” he responds; intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Dazai, I like you a lot,” you say out loud, finally letting out your confession through words—but after the intimate moment you both shared, really, he definitely got the idea at that point.

“I really like you too,” he respond before his head falls back on your pillow. “But I need to do this for myself. I have to go away… for a bit.”

“I won’t tell you what you can and can’t do,” you say, fighting back tears once again. “Are you going to forget about me?”

“I could never, my belladonna.”

“Dazai?”

He trailed his fingers on your arm in hopes of comforting you. “Yes?”

“I will miss you.”

He doesn’t hesitate, so he leaves small kisses on your forehead. “I will miss you more, my belladonna. But please—I will be thinking of you. I’ll find my way to come back to you.”

And those were the last few words spoken from him until four in the morning, and you did your best to stay up for as long as possible so you wouldn’t have to wake up to an empty bed.

But that’s what happened anyway.

However, you couldn’t argue with Dazai. He was a mysterious man—he always had been. Filled with witty acts and a charming personality that allowed you to fall for him. One whom rarely opened up his book to you, and it seemed as if he was just another one left unread, but maybe, it wouldn’t be lost in the stack of other forgotten books for so long.

Every part of him was a mystery, and you weren’t surprised that he was one.

[wangisking]

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘  𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑  𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐘

BASICS. FULL    NAME  :  Augustus Alexander Wang  NICKNAME  :  August and Gus ( in general ), Auggie, Ice Prince, and Guggie ( by Aurora ). Aug and Lestat  ( by Jack ),  NAME    MEANINGS  : Augustus is  Latin for  the great / the magnificent.  Alexander is also Latin and means defender of mankind. From what I know, Wang in Chinese means king.  HISTORICAL    CONNECTION ?  : Though, his dad did think of the Roman Emperor Augustus when they named him, they liked the meaning. It seemed to fit him. They weren’t wrong, he was an emperor and he still has that energy.   AGE  :  22. Like Aurora, he can’t age past 22. He wouldn’t have minded either way.    BIRTHDAY  :  5th  April ETHNIC    GROUP  :   Augustus is half Korean and half Brazilian.  NATIONALITY  :   British LANGUAGES  :   fluent  in  English and French. Conversational Latin. Broken Korean. Learning Urdu. SEXUAL    ORIENTATION  :  demi-heterosexual ROMANTIC    ORIENTATION  :  demi-heterosexual RELATIONSHIP    STATUS  :   Single and doesn’t want to mingle. He had only one serious relationship in the past with Aurora Shams from 2017-2019.  CLASS  :  Upper  class,  Wealthy but not private-jet kind of wealthy.  HOME    TOWN  /  AREA  :  London till he was 10 and Vancouver till he was 17 CURRENT    HOME  :  Los  Angeles PROFESSION  :   Drummer, songwriter, model, and student.    PHYSICAL. HAIR  :  long  and  wavy.  Chestnut brown. Here is an example. It goes down his earlobes in length.    EYES  :  piercing, almond-shaped eyes. Naturally brown, but he wears blue or green contact lenses.  NOSE  :   a Greek nose, straight without bumps. FACE  :  Oblong shaped, sharp and chiseled cheekbones, strong jaw. Masculine features. Example.  LIPS  :  not  full  nor  thin, heart shaped.     COMPLEXION  :  pretty pale. Example is same as the face section.  SCARS  :  one on his chest. TATTOOS  :  a very small ‘10/17′ on his left rib.   PIERCINGS:  earlobes HEIGHT  :  6′5″  or  195cm.   BUILD  :  Inverted triangle. Broad, tapered shoulders. Muscular. Defined, sculpted abs. Long limbs. Broad chest. He was naturally towards the muscular side with broad shoulders and chest. He’s never been on the skinny side. Example one and two   USUAL  HAIR  STYLE  :  he lets his hair do their thing, he styles them a little, but he prefers a messier vibe.  USUAL  FACE  LOOK  :  He looks generally bored. His eyes have a piercing look that seem to be drilling into the person before him. Like he can see right through you. There is an insolent smirk tugging at his lips like he thinks you’re amusing. Almost proud, like he thinks he is above you. There is depth and intensity in his eyes that stare skywards in thought. There is also mischievous, radiant glimmer in his eyes.   USUAL    CLOTHING  :  prince charming meets rockstar. Lots of jackets, darker colors, boots, necklaces and rings. Here is his wardrobe.      PSYCHOLOGY. FEARS  :  claustrophobia and the fear of ending up alone. He always had this creeping feeling that he’d be alone in the end and that he was always meant to be alone.  ASPIRATIONS  :   he doesn’t have any set aspirations. They change every now and then. However, his goals are just to keep his found family happy.  POSITIVE    TRAITS  :  extremely charismatic, intelligent,  academic and studious, alluring and attractive, quick-witted, charming and captivating, articulate and eloquent, adventurous, desirable, analytical, brilliant, friendly, enthusiastic, adaptable, observant, kind, mellow, competent, extremely caring and protective over those closest to him, clever, loyal, clear-headed, confident, humorous, courageous, imaginative and creative, a visionary, refined tastes and manners, daring, dignified, ebullient, deep, remarkable, surprisingly he’s very forgiving, forthright, gallant, logical, gentlemanly and sophisticated, perfectionist, popular, self-reliant, shrewd, witty, suave, curious, and resourceful.    NEGATIVE    TRAITS  :  egocentric, self-obsessed, idle, indifferent, selfish, defiant, arrogant, argumentative, rebellious, kinda lazy, stubborn, distracted, doesn’t really care for morals, blunt, can appear insensitive a lot, is insensitive at times, no filters, can be cold for those he doesn’t care for, emotionally immature, deflects emotions, suppresses his feelings, sorta detached, kinda pessimistic, and unknowingly self-sacrificing because he thinks it’s fair and he deserves it.   MBTI  :  ENTP  (  Ne  dominant,  Ti  auxiliary,  Fe  tertiary,  and  Si  inferior  —  this  means  she  can’t  use  Ni,  Se,  Te,  and  especially  can’t  use  Fi). He  perceives  the  world  by  connecting  dots,  thinking  of  never-ending  possibilities,  looking  for  pieces  of  a  puzzle,  and  finding  meaning  in  abstract.  He  makes  judgments  on  if  what  he  perceives  fits  his  internal  logic.          ZODIAC  :  Aries sun, Gemini rising, Sagittarius moon.  TEMPERAMENT  :  sanguine choleric  ANIMALS  :  parrots and cats because they’re both intelligent but little pieces of shit who enjoy making your life hell.  VICE  :   it’s either his ego or how he ends up detaching himself FAITH  :  currently, he’s Mu.slim. He was born protestant, became an atheist when he was 13, agnostic at 14. Bud.dhist at 15. Taoist at 16. Confucianist at 17. Mu.slim at 19. Doesn't practice it though.     GHOSTS  ?  :  yep.. AFTERLIFE  ?  :   yep REINCARNATION  ?  :  he guesses so. Went  through  it, but doesn’t remember. ALIENS  ?  :  hell yeah. POLITICAL    ALIGNMENT  :  liberal. ECONOMIC    PREFERENCE  :   upper class or upper middle class is good with him.  EDUCATION    LEVEL  :   MSci in Physics from the University of Cambridge. Is opting to specialize in astrophysics soon. FAMILY. FATHER  :  Edward Wang, owner of a chain of fine dining restaurants  MOTHER  :  Elisa Violeta Wang, psychiatrist, deceased  STEP MOTHER :  Chaeyoung Wang, lawyer.  SIBLINGS  :  Cassandra Wang, athlete EXTENDED    FAMILY  :  he is not close with his external family and doesn’t know his birth mother’s family at all. They never wanted him.  FAVOURITES. BOOK  :   Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, Galactic Dynamics by James Binney, Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Mukarami, Slaughter house Five by Kurt Vonnegut, War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy, and Lord of the Flies by William Golding. MOVIE  :  Scott Pilgrim vs The World 5    SONGS :  All You Want - Dashboard Prophets, Tokyo Smoke - Cage the Elephant, Where is My Mind? - The Pixies, Sparks - Coldplay, Lithium - Nirvana, and Mr. Blue Sky - Electric Light Orchestra     DEITY  :  none.  Let him argue with one and ask for proof of their deity-ness. HOLIDAY  :  Halloween. It’s dramatic and fun. MONTH  :   October, because he met Aurora and Jack this month in 2017. SEASON  :  spring  and  summer. PLACE  :  he doesn’t have a specific place, but he prefers European architecture.  WEATHER  :  cloudy and windy. Sunny if it isn’t too hot. SOUND  :  drums and percussions, the sound of aurora and jack’s laugh, guitars, violins, the sound of wind roaring, music boxes, and the clinking of bangles and jewelry.  SCENTS  :  sage, rosemary, and damascus roses. TASTES  :  chocolate, strawberries, chilies, and fried food.       FEELS  :   the feeling of hitting the drums, wind in his hair, the cold night air, warm morning sun, grass against his fingertips, silk, and touching long hair.   ANIMALS  :  cats and dogs. NUMBER  :   8 COLORS  :  white, cherry red, pink, maroon, wine red, black, and silver. EXTRA. TALENTS  :  he is an extremely talented drummer, good at guitar and the piano, he is talented at songwriting, composing music, he’s exceptionally good at mathematics and physics, analytical skills, storytelling, knows a lot of facts, near photographic memory because he remembers all important historical events with dates and details, academic writing, and brainstorming ideas.  BAD  AT  :   cooking, not very good at driving because he gets distracted, doing one task at a time, playing videogames, actually listening to what people say, being humble, and actually being a good leader.  TURN    ONS  :  this is a complicated question. He needs a very strong emotional connection to feel sexual attraction towards someone. And he only felt it for one person in his whole life. But, what sparked that attraction was a brilliant mind and the ability to connect with his mind on a very different level. It’s not going to repeat with anyone else.  TURN    OFFS  :  literally everyone else. He’s not sorry, but I am. HOBBIES  :  playing the drums, writing and composing songs, reading, solving problems, listening to music, watching shows, getting people to do weird shit, and annoying people.      AESTHETIC  :  crowns, drums, broken drumming sticks, abstract art, the vast space, chess boards, album cases, thrones, the echoing sound of pianos, Greek sculptures, galaxies and nebulas, early morning sunrise through curtains, libraries, equations scribbled on napkins, empty museums, unmade white sheets, polaroid cameras, conspiracy theories, VHS tapes, antique books, cobblestone alleyways, night skies, cluttered books, calloused fingers, crumpled composition pages, guitar picks, vinyl, telescopes, and planets.      Basically: abstract, chaotic academia, cryptid academia, dark academia, indie, kingcore, light academia, musical academia, science academia, spacecore,   QUOTES  :   it’s weird but i can’t decide which one fits him.  FC  INFO. MAIN    FC  :  victor han  ALT    FC  :  n/a. OLDER    FC  :  he can’t age past 22, so he doesn’t need one. YOUNGER    FC  :  none  yet. VOICE    CLAIM  :  both speaking and singing (his accent is posh British with a slight hint of Canadian) MUN  QUESTIONS. Q1  :    If you could write your character your way in their own movie , what    would  it  be  called ,  what  style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about ?    A1 :  The same answer as Aurora, The Tale of Solis et Lunae that stars him alongside Aurora, Lunae, Jack, and Tate, plus more. A cosmic adventure / fantasy / coming of age / superhero / the reluctant hero / the chosen one.  His role is of Aurora’s best friend and her greatest support in emotional and supernatural dangers. He is the time traveler who ascends time and space, so he often also gives her insight and information like the sage. It’ll  expand across dimensions, worlds, and different states of existence. The scenes would be cinematic with a strong soundtrack. I imagine him to have some scenes like Quick Silver in the X-Men movies.       Q2  :   What would their soundtrack / score sound like  ?     A2  :   He would have a 90s grunge or spacey dream rock sound. It ties in with the end of the last answer because i see him in one of those scenes with 90s grunge or maybe classical music ?    Q3  :      Why did you start writing this character  ? A3  :    I made Augustus just a bit before Aurora. They were a two part deal. I don’t know when it began, I just had this image of a tall, long haired boy with piercing, intelligent eyes who’s a smart-ass and likes being a know-it-all nuisance. This character has been the same since he began in 2019 and refused to change. He was always a drummer, he always had the same fashion sense, the look, Gus was always half-Korean, he always had long fingers he wore rings on, and he was always Aurora’s best friend/partner in crime. He remains unchanged and that's why I wanted to write him. This very vivid image of this boy was something I had to pen down. And just my luck, I found a fc who looks exactly how Gus looked in my head.   Q4  :    What  first  attracted  you  to  this  character  ? A4  :   Augustus is just extraordinary. It’s something I always felt about him and Aurora and I don’t see any of my other characters coming anywhere close to them regardless of how much I spent time on them. But with Augustus, his entire image and looks and personality — down to his wardrobe and jewelry was always so vivid in my head. Like I knew this very chaotically handsome boy who was going to turn the world upside down.  His story is interesting, but what interests me more is his perspective on his story. The way he looks at his life and how he is quiet and doesn’t show his pain. How confused he always is. How much he aches but never seems so. The way he loves but doesn’t say even a quarter of the intensity he feels. And how sometimes he believes he deserves suffering because it makes sense to him. I also love the connections he makes and the way he loves so deeply and profoundly but underneath the surface. His connection, love, fears, and hopes with Aurora and Jack for their respective reasons are extremely beautiful.   Q5  :      Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.  ? A5  :  Augustus is unknowingly self-sabotaging. He let go the only relationship / love in his life that made him feel like real love just because he thought he didn’t deserve it. And because when he was provoked, it made “sense” to him. He bottles his emotions and pain so much despite their intensity. He never shows how much he really cares and really hurts. And how sure he is that he’ll end up alone without friends and that it makes sense to him. Q6  :      What    do    you    have    in    common    with    your    muse  ?   A6  :    Here’s a fun answer, because I bottle my emotions like him. I also interact with the carefree way he does even if I don’t feel peachy. He’s smart and witty and really hot and I don’t even have that going on for me. So, yikes. Only of Gus’ bad things I share.  Q7  :      How  does your muse feel about you  ?   A7  :  Gus loves interacting with people so he’ll definitely show up to annoy me. Maybe, he might think I’m fun to annoy? Or maybe, we’ll have a similar sense of humor. I think he won’t dislike me. Not sure if he’ll like me. I think he’d think I’m funny in a strange sort of way.  Q8  :      What    characters    does    your    muse    have    interesting    interactions  with  ? A8  :��   Aurora, first of all. They have this same brain wave-length thing going on where they’re partners in crime and bffs forever more. He knows how she is feeling and what she’s thinking even before she utters it. If she is about to sneeze, he’d get a tissue ready. He can tell if she is hungry or sleepy with one glance. She can do the same, so they sorta have this weird understanding of each other.  Jack is this older brother figure Augustus loves. He won’t admit it, but he kinda wants to make Jack proud of him. He also wants to provide love and care to Jack that he thinks he deserves but never got. They’re his family now and he’ll never be alone or sad again. He annoys Jack a lot but behind it all, he just wants Jack to think he is needed and he belongs. That if he thinks Augustus is reliant on him, then he has this family he has to protect and care for. He can’t stand the thought of Jack feeling unloved, forgotten, alone.  Tida is another one. There’s this great respect and adoration Gus has for him. Almost like he looks up to him in some ways  He also has a lot of hopes and expectations attached. He feels Tida is everything that Gus himself lacks. He is the ideal boyfriend, kindest person, shows his emotions vividly, and is like a warm and cozy blanket personified. He is probably Tida and Aurora’s biggest supporter and first one to know. He can’t be happier than he is that Aurora found someone as good and perfect as Tida.   Taewon is one really fun character. Their two-way frenemy jealousy spans over years and started in Cambridge when they were both in love with the same girl they claimed to be best friends with. Though, trying to be calm, Augustus was constantly provoked and hurt, made to feel inferior and constantly in fear of his relationship being broken by Taewon’s schemes that he couldn’t say out loud. This dark period ended with a fist fight and baggage of guilt they both carry to this day for hurting each other and the one they claimed to love. Today, they’re way past that and frenemies who have funny quips and arguments for each other. They say they dislike each other. But if the lighting is good, one would be the photographer of the other. Q9  :      What    gives    you    inspiration    to    write    your    muse  ? A9  :  Music  helps  me  imagine  scenes  with  perfect  visual  details.  Any  scenes  from  shows  that  remind  me  of  my  storylines. Q10  :      How    long    did    this    take    you    to    complete  ?   A10  :  I don’t remember. It was many days and I didn’t count because it was in bits and pieces.

[namjoonchronicles]

please | jm

↳ genre angst, established relationship

↳ words 3k

↳ summary there’s always setbacks in married couple. it had been quite clear that you and Jimin don’t see eye-to-eye about certain things and habits, but the secret to long lasting marriage, is how you fix what’s broken.

↳ warning mentions of miscarriage

↳ song taylor swift ‘champagne problems’, dean lewis ‘waves’, rihanna ‘complicated’, olly murs ‘you don’t know love’

Fast steps dashing across the hallway, the bathroom door blasted open. A pair of knees wearing damaged jeans, kneeling over the toilet. The toilet seat whacked open, hand gripping its sides dependently. He wretches. His torsos strained and his veins began to pop. Wet, frothy sound hits the water in the toilet bowl. You sped to the toilet, rubbing his back up and down, passing him a towel. But he wasn’t done. He continued to hold the toilet brims, vomiting every content in his stomach. The smell of alcohol wafted around the extent of the room. You hate to see him like this. It wasn’t a majestic view. With half his head buried in the toilet bowl, his ‘young & forever’ tattooed in the back of his arms, it wasn’t a pretty view at all. 

Flickering light on the hall. The stillness in the air. With the fridge light lighting the way, you pour a glass of water for him. When you return to the bathroom where he is, he is seated, backed away from the toilet bowl, leaning against the wooden cabinet door. Dirty blonde hair, loose white shirt and torned jeans, he wipes his mouth with the towel you gave. He glanced to the side where you stood idle, and flashed a cunning smile. Jimin dropped his gaze on his propped knee then let the back of his head hit the wood. Then he laughs, chuckling through his nose. But not in the way you know as happiness, more like bitterness. It reminded you everything Jimin is, was. He reeled you in with that same smile and that same pain. The way he charms, the way he spoke and the way he looked at you, he knew what he was doing half of the time, but this time, you took the time to figure out who, what he is. 

He had been feeling dreadful; half of himself all the time. Felt the need to fill the void inside him with as much alcohol he could, just to feel something. He comes home to you, but you’re not here. He needs the music louder than he thoughts so he frequented the clubs. He could have any girls he wanted in the place, but it wasn’t what he looked for. If anything, he was lonely but none of these companions would have suffice. He was afraid that if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop. Isn’t it enough hurt he’s caused you? With you pulling away at every advances he made, and the stranger in the bed situation every time he returns home to you alone, he gets frustrated from the thing you couldn’t talk about. 

To make matters much worse, he’d rather live like his dying next to you than live without you. It’s a puzzling thing, love. How it gutted you out and filled you in. How it makes you feel alive and dead at the same time. The things you would do for the ones you love is limitless. Death of love. How it seemed inevitable. 

You put on a toothpaste on his toothbrush, help him clean up. Took his shirt off, unbuckled his belt for him, and had him shed his jeans. Jimin never once took his eyes off of you when you did this. But he didn’t say a word. If he did, he must have said it in his head. It felt like he was raking your brain apart to put himself together. If anything, love was disdained in this household. When was the last time you held him? Or spoke to him? Or kissed his lips or loved him? Those days felt so far away. As you put away his clothes into the front load washing machine to wash, you protest that love too; is putting away one's clothes, is taking care of them when they’re drunk and half loved. He stepped into the shower, stood under the running water.  The hot steams of the water wafting up the ceiling, and he sighed. Water cascading down every inch of his skin, through his hair, down his earlobes, along his jaws and under his chin. Dimples of Apollo and Adonis belt well defined, he leans his forearm on the wall and lets his thoughts run. He mulls over how it used to be; you would join him in the shower, and be quite inseparable. Why is it so hard to be like that again?

Jimin fishes out a plain T to go to bed in. Unlike the nights before, he refused to take his pillows out and sleep on the sofa outside. Tonight, he is determined to get in the same bed his wife slept in. 

When you returned to see him in the bed, eyes shut and curled in a ball and laying on his side, you couldn’t lie, you wanted to keep him safe. You wanted to chase away everything he might fear and save him from anything that’s eating him alive. But you hated him so much. His party life and the cunning charming smile he would throw others. And then, there’s the reckless spending. The relationship feels like it’s going nowhere. He is never home and you feel like a stone. He is only getting the attention he needs, knowing he couldn’t get any at home. How could you blame him? How do you churn out the hurt and start talking to him, instead of running polar opposites from where he is?

“Murderer,” he said. You turned to him.

“How did you live your life knowing that you’ve killed me?” His eyelids fluttered open, and staring straight at you.

The pain in his voice shot through your heart, welling up your eyes as you remembered the things you both had done in the past. 

“I’ve killed you?” you asked him in gentle whispers, through broken voices, “Do you not see where this relationship is not going? Your partying, your spendings? Your utter disrespect to the foundation of this household? I hate seeing you drunk and still you do it…” You roughly wipe your tears away with the back of your hand. 

He caught your hand, and stead, gently thumb your cheeks. His eyes glided on you. You switched to your back, eyes holding at the ceiling as he moved closer to you, the tip of his nose poking the skin on your neck, inhaling your scent. His hand snuck underneath your thin fabric, and his lips peppered kisses around the expanse of your neck and shoulders, jaws and cheeks. 

“Please love me,” he pleaded, with his entire being.

It must have been around mid-March, winter ended, and spring began. It was raining heavily, the raindrops splattered on the glass windows of the cafe you were in. The coffee half-drunken, sitting on its saucer by your right wrist. You were reading a piece on Franz Kafka, when blood dribbled down your philtrum and onto the pages of Die Verwandlung. You hurried to grab a tissue from under the saucer, causing the spoon to fall clattered on the marble floor and pulled the attention to you. The waitress came running to your side, squatting down to see if you’re alright. 

Now, at your close friends’ clinic, you patiently waited for her medical deduction of you. Her expressions are unreadable and the shame hasn’t subsided either, for you. You came to give her a gift you’ve bought her but she insisted to have her time with you by checking your wellbeing. Once she’s crossed out that you’ve been working hard, her furrowed brows and thinking forehead lines begin to soften. 

“When was your last period?” 

Blink. Blink. 

“Your acne resurfaced, you have been having mood swings, you also had headaches and you told me about a smell I couldn’t sense,” she pauses, and smiles triumphantly at you, “Your hormones are changing… I am suggesting… possibilities of pregnancy?” She leaned forward, and stuck her hand into the drawer under her desk and took out a fresh box of test kit. She tapped it on her table, and propped an elbow to rest her chin on her palm and grinned. She winked at you and now is smiling so widely. Too widely. You took the kit and stood up. 

“There’s a loo over here, if you want some company…” she giggled.

You begin with a sigh. 

“How long am I in, do you think? I drank coffee almost everyday…” you spoke through the walls, echoes on the tiles but your best friend heard them very well, then you resumed, “But it can’t be, could it?”

“I don’t know, you’re the one having sex, you should remember…” she shrugged, leaning against the counter as you sat on the toilet bowl. Your smile didn’t last very long, and noticing this, she asked you.

“Is there something wrong?”

Your friends knew how much you wanted kids, and with the possibilities of having one now, you looked pretty upset. 

“Jimin’s… Jimin isn’t fit to be a father,” you confessed and when you did, a weight seemed to lift themselves off of your shoulder. Then comes the waterworks. You cried easily these days and it became close to annoying. You cried at sad commercials, at dog videos and a sight of cute things. Your friend comes kneeling next to you as you wait for the lines to develop. 

She rubbed your back, in effort to calm you down. 

“He isn’t home till late, and I get it, it’s because of his job but I feel so lonely sometimes and I think he doesn’t care about that… he just goes out with his friends and starts drinking, and he won’t answer the calls I make. It’s been awhile since we even had dinners together. Last week, a girl called the emergency number on his phone saying he was drunk laying flat on the floor and needed me to get him home…” you covered your face and started crying harder, “And that’s not even half of the shit he does…”

Jimin recently emptied half of your joined accounts to buy a leather jacket and bag he wants to be a gift to his friend. When you approached him about it, he said he was going to recover the money soon. He said many things and did it time and time again, and sometimes, you wished you could scream in his face to tell him to stop. The money could have been for the future, it could have been a start for a piggy bank for kids you might have, and if Jimin doesn’t stop his uneventful spendings, you would be eating from scraps. And there was no gentle way to say this, but to give him the cold shoulders. You don’t want to cry in front of a man that feels that it is okay to spend without asking their partners first. Taehyung might have loved that leather jacket, but you would rather the fridge filled with half the cost of that jacket. You could really eat well these days.

When the double line appeared, you cried even harder in the arms of your best friend. She cried with you too. Closed the clinic for the day so she could be with you. And pour out your heart contents, like a dam broke and it comes flooding. There were so many things you wanted to say, and you held back all these while to save whatever that you could save. But there’s just so much tolerance you could give and there’s just so much you could take. 

“My darling,” your best friend said softly, “You’re talking in circles.” Maybe it’s because your life was going in circles. With Jimin’s recurrent attitude and you continue to persevere at every receiving end, succumbing to your hurt, it was going in rounds. 

The car comes to a stop at the lobby, and the windows wind down. Your best friend stroked your hand through the window and held them tight. 

“Talk,” she advised, “Tell him how you feel… Be strong.”

I can’t be strong and tell him how I feel at the same time.

The car sped off and you walked into the lobby. You walked into the lobby and suddenly felt cramping on your torso. You had to clutch over the handrail as you stood in the elevator, people coming in starting to support you, asking you what happened. They helped you call Jimin over but the calls don’t get through until their third try. With the loud music, Jimin couldn’t hear the phone. He went to remind himself that he had to track a new order of a bomber jacket he bought online to see how long it takes to get here when he saw your name flashing on the caller ID. He excused himself, brushing knees with three to four ladies on the sofa where he was before sprinted outside to catch the call. 

So here he is, arriving at the level and jogging to where you are. 

“Why are you leaving your wife alone when she’s unwell…” the crowd dispersed but it was clear that the comments were thrown by an uncle that was there. Jimin carried you bridal style and got the door open before laying on the bed. He brushed your hair out of your face. 

“It’s just the cramps…” you lied.

“Those monthly cramps right? Nothing serious?” He repeated. 

You nodded. He doesn’t look like he wanted to stay there any longer. He is rushing to get away it seems.

“So…” he drawled, “If you’re alright now, and there’s nothing serious, I should remind you that I bought a bomber jacket and it’s expected to arrive soon… I’m best going because the birthday boy is coming around midnight, you’re alright right?” He is already at the door frame, walking sideways, mashing his lips together and looking at the time and then his phone. His face shone by the light from the screens, his jawline, his attentions, how handsome he looked and you tried so hard to not break right there and then. You turned the other way and said that you’re fine. You clenched your eyes shut and you felt him breathing next to you, a faint scent of nicotine on his shirt and a light kiss on your hair. 

“Please love me…” you begged, placing your palm on your tummy where the baby is. Just as desperately.

It shouldn’t have been difficult to ask for affection with your significant other. And yet. It just had been a while since you spent time together. Asking for his time after a while felt awkward. But when he smiled, and he smiled so bright, you felt a tinge of confidence. It felt like he, too, was waiting for the invitation. 

“What’s the occasion?” He asked, with a shy smile. 

“It’s just been a while since we spoke…” you set out saucers and poured him tea. 

I want to tell you everything. Everything I have and all that I carry with me. I am going through a hard time, and I want you to be there.

“You’re pregnant…” his eyes became so round and his accusation turned into fact. Since you took the time to confirm them, he was certained. That you are indeed carrying his child. 

You hung your head low and began to sob. Jimin stood up immediately from his chair, he held your shoulders and his hand raised up to your neck, then he thumbed your cheeks to slowly lift your face up.

“I lost it, the night you left for Taehyung’s party…I didn’t know how to tell you,” you begin explaining frantically, but Jimin gathered your head under his chin and he softly held the back of your head, cradling you. You shuddered against his body, shivering like you’ve walked in the cold and finally found warmth. His eyes stunned and unblinking until tears wells up on its own. His nose turned red and he sobbed gently. As you grew limp in his embrace, he held you tighter, firmer--as if making up for the nights he couldn’t hold you close. Or when he is too occupied with things that aren’t his family. He was punishing himself for what he couldn’t control and things he couldn’t say. After the cramps you felt, there was blood on the sheet that you lay in. You’ve bawled alone on the bed, cradling the bloodied lump, knowing full well that you’ve suffered a miscarriage. 

You have lain in bed for the rest of the evening after the reveal. Jimin had been home and holding your hands and refused to be parted from you. He laced his fingers in yours and thumbed your knuckles while he smiles at the TV show. He even laid with you, holding your tummy and whispering gently, encouraging you to eat and giving out ideas on what to eat. He offered to cook and to tidy things up. He washed the plates in the sink and kept your body warm with his own. 

“It’s my fault,” he began, “If I was home more often, I would have noticed…”

“Jimin…” you protested weakly.

“I wasn’t as attentive as I should be, I will become better now…” he decreed, “Whether you like it or not, I will be home.”

“I’d like that…” you hummed to yourself, and it seemed he heard it quite clearly, because he smiled and returned to wipe the plates dry and arrange them on the plate drying rack. 

Maybe, you don’t always have to tell. Maybe, he could just see.

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Copyright © January 8th, 2021 namjoonchronicles do not repost, leave feedback :’) please

[anthrotographer]

Cleo from 5 to 7 (1962)

Directed by: Agnès Varda

Daises (1966)

Directed by: Věra Chytilová

Sorry for the long scroll. This is an essay I did for a class about a year ago. It was on two women directed foreign films Cleo from 5 to 7 and Daises. In the paper I get into a lot of the similarities between the films and what they do well, but I don’t get to really give my opinion on them. Both the Czech Daises and French Cleo are wonderfully unique. Daises was chaotic, fun, and plotless. I really had to work to eek out some meaning from that one. Cleo from 5 to 7 caught me by surprise of how much I loved it. It’s one of the best films I’ve ever watched. I don’t always judge films objectively like I ought to. Usually if there is an extremely stuck up, narcissistic lead character in a movie it turns me off. I’m not really interested in seeing personality types like that. Cleo from 5 to 7 breaks through for me though. The evolution of Cleo’s character is based so much on real experiences that I find it to be such a truthful story, with layers of weighty symbolism.

———————————————————————

The Timid Cleo and the Bold Daises

Through the Nineteen-sixties feminist movements could be seen sprouting all across the globe. The art, music, and filmmaking alike from these periods captured and spread these feminist ideals. Agnes Varda in France and Vera Chytilová in Czechoslovakia were women film directors who made films with women’s issues in mind. Varda’s Cleo from 5 to 7 is a slow, plot driven drama that follows, as David Cook puts it, “the life of a young pop singer who is waiting for a lab report that will tell her whether she has cancer” (Cook 370). Vera Chytilová ’s Daises appears to be a plot-less comedy headed by an anarchic female duo. Both films were made in patriarchal societies and appear to take place in them. The two films explore how their women protagonists deal with being seen as objects of beauty in these male dominated worlds. Cleo struggles with finding her self-worth outside of her superficiality and feels like maintaining her beauty is tied to that self-worth. Marie I and Marie II in Daises inversely have no questions about their self-worth and use their objectivity to their advantage. The Maries thus have less evolving to do in comparison to Cleo who’s journey it is to detach her pride from her beauty.

Cleo wallows in fear as she awaits the results of her biopsy. Everyone she would consider “close” to her, like her assistant, her boyfriend, and her pianist seem uninterested in her troubles or are unwilling to give her a comforting ear. That is until Cleo meets up with her old friend from art school, Dorothee. After a stressful day Cleo heads to the sculpting studio where Dorothee works as a nude model. As Cleo walks into the studio the camera appears to give us a first person shot from Cleo’s perspective. It’s a slow, apprehensive moving shot into the room where the sculpting is happening, giving us the feeling that Cleo is uncomfortable with what’s happening. Then we see Dorothee posing naked still in the middle of the class and she meets eyes with Cleo. She does not appear embarrassed in the slightest, on the contrary she is excited to see her friend. Cleo waits for Dorothee to finish her shift and get changed so they can walk out together. We learn as they talk that Cleo was in fact uncomfortable in the studio as she tells Dorothee that she would be “afraid people would find a fault” if that was her. Dorothee responds with one of the most profound quotes of the film and one that seems to stick with Cleo. Dorothee says “my body makes me happy, not proud” meaning that she can be happy about the way she looks without having her self-esteem or pride being affected by it. Through the first half of the film Cleo had been overtly concerned about her disease possibly affecting her appearance. This is exemplified by her constantly checking in mirrors to see if she is still pretty. It appears that to Cleo her beauty and fame are all she is good for. She sees herself through the patriarchal lens. For example, Cleo’s never present boyfriend shows up to her apartment for a quick chat in which he avoids the topic of her sickness and extols upon her beauty for five minutes until he leaves. Also, a few minutes later Bob, her pianist shows up and jokes about how he’s attracted to her because of her money. The possibility of a cancer diagnosis forces Cleo to start thinking the way Dorothee thinks. Allison Smith writes about Cleo’s cancer that “Her knowledge of its existence therefore obliges her to see herself differently, to take account of her own awareness” (Smith 97). This focus on the world outside of herself helps her find someone who actually cares about her and not just her good looks. That person is the soldier Antoine. Even though he finds her beautiful that is not the only aspect of Cleo that he is invested in. He cares about her health; the only other character in the film besides her longtime friend Dorothee that truly worries about her diagnosis. Cleo ultimately finds solace in the fact that she has made a real, non-superficial relationship with another human being. The protagonists in Daises also are involved in superficial relations, yet they do not perceive them as negative the way Cleo does.

The two young woman named Marie who headline the film Daises have no qualms about being objectified. Like Cleo, everywhere they go, they capture the gaze of men. The Maries are  comfortable within themselves enough to use their beauty as a tool for their own benefit. From the outset of the film the girls exclaim that they intend to spoil themselves, so using men for free dinners and then dropping them like used napkins afterwards naturally follows. One such occurrence happens in a scene where the red headed Marie is over at the apartment of some butterfly collecting pianist. The man creepily exclaims his love to her through a poem while Marie poses nude for him. He calls her Julie, giving us the impression that Marie gave him a false name, just like the Maries do with all the men they meet. Handing out false names shows the lack of commitment and respect they have for the men they toy with. Once Marie starts to put her bra back on, the pianist gets angry and says, “I wish you’d never come into my life!” Marie knows exactly how to play him though and the next thing he sees is Marie holding two framed butterflies over her exposed chest. The man completely reverts back to exclaiming his love for “Julie”. Marie uses this opportunity to ask for the one thing that the Maries always want, food. Women overeating is just one of the patriarchal taboos that Daises flips on its head.

The characters of this film go against the traditional patriarchal ideals of what women should be. Women are used to having their beauty be used against them and for the pleasure of men, but in Vera Chytilová ’s film the Maries use their beauty against men and for the pleasure of themselves. Traditionally women also have been forced into the submissive role in society, where they have to keep themselves composed and presentable constantly. To the Maries that is not even a thought that crosses their minds. They do not adhere to being the submissive ones, in fact they control the dialogue and direction of every interaction with men in the film. Laurel Harris seems to agree with me when he writes “…the Maries’ hysterical excess is a calculated response to inadequate roles in their society for individuals of their age and gender” (Harris 4). The duo also does not worry about seeming composed or mannerly when scoffing down pastries and appetizers in crowded restaurants. In antiquated gender roles women are made to watch how much they eat so they can maintain their figure, but at dinner with one of their suckers, one Marie asks the man “Are you on a diet?” I agree with Peter Hames assessment of Daises’ conception when he writes “Since women have been excluded from productive behavior, they have turned to art and play” (Hames 87). Hames is saying that Vera Chytilová ’s film is a reaction to woman being controlled for far too long. Whether Chytilová  set out to make a feminist film or not the end result for Daises is a film that does not judge its non-conformist female characters.

Cleo from 5 to 7 is more explicitly set in a male run society. Agnes Varda created a character in Cleo that starts off fully invested in that societal structure. Her happiness is tied up into her superficial being, but because of the cancer she is forced to take account of what truly is meaningful in her life. She starts to crave caring relationships with people who recognize her for more than just being a pretty pop star. Cleo finds the power within herself to break out of the caged existence of women in a male dominated society. Cleo at one point in the film rips off her wig and gives away her fashionable hat; two symbols of conventional female beauty. Cleo from 5 to 7 and Daises both represent women’s lives in these feministic ways.

The two women filmmakers Agnes Varda and Vera Chytilová end up making similar films in that they have themes of women empowerment. Yet, the way in which its illustrated in each film is drastically different. Chytilová’s Daises wastes no time in showing the viewer that women can be unapologetic anarchists. There is no preconception of womanhood that the Maries have to fight to overcome. They just are empowered women. Cleo from 5 to 7 shows the evolution that a particular woman has to make to escape from seeing herself as just an object. These films helped inspire a generation of women in not conforming to typical patriarchal standards.

 

 

Works Cited

Cook, David A. “Chapter 13.” A History of Narrative Film. W.W. Norton, 2016.

Hames, Peter. “The Golden Sixties: The Czechoslovak New Wave revisited.” Studies in

Eastern European Cinema, 2013.

Harris, Laurel. “Czech New Wave Cinema: The Children of Marx and Kafka.” PopMatters, PopMatters, 30 Mar. 2002.

Smith, Alison. “Agnes Varda.” Manchester and New York, Manchester University Press, 1998.